You can see this.
Watch the mountain. Watch closely, for some time. Watch for ten million years. Stay as long as you like. The earth heaves up a mountain. Or the mountain heaves up itself. Watching will not tell us which. It emerges. The mountain crests from the earth into the sky then crashes down, or dissolves, melting back into the earth like a great stone wave, a wave breaking so slowly. It says, I am no more solid than rain. The world urges mountains in their season urges apples from branches, urges babies from their amnion. They are of a piece. An apple is a mountain. An apple self-complicates from blossom to flesh fills with juice, drops, urges back to soil to make more apples. No one demands this, not god, it happens. You might say all of it is a verb.
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Poems from Other Days
September 2021
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