Atlantic low

Poetry Published April 15, 2011

never to come by here again. And I do not know
what it is all about and I do not care
what it is all about, only that the sun comes
and touches me sometimes and touches the stone
and reminds me. There are trees
on the southern slope, their needles shift in the cloud, shift
under the mountain. Always there is cloud
on the mountain. I dream of the sun,
the sun which touches me when the river speaks,
sun which soaks the stone white, dissolves
the cloud, dissolves the mountain,
dissolves me in it. To be dissolved.

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