Dreams of the Search
In this place the trails cross without beginning.
It is where the night fell before it could be found
and questioned. Since, the wilderness has listened
through abandoned nests and dams, frozen streams,
to be apprised of our separated arrivals.
Between us the fire throbs a wounded nebula
fragments swirling up beyond its glow
into the pine musk, that star-dwelt darkness.
Look. The sparks successively flare, vanish.
Prescient agonies I do not choose, they choose me.
It was when I confirmed the others had gone
the white fox bounded from his hole
to lope in and out of view. Though this too
is an injury I stand as mute as sky.
Snow deepens above a deferred
silence. It is into this silence
the last lights were seen to pass.
I sense hardwood, hemlock, a mixed multitude
limbs touching branch upon branch to edges
of rivers, clearings without habitation. If
there are voices, if there are roads,
may they lead to a single home.
Poem by David W. Parsley
David W. Parsley is a Poet; Satellite Program Manager; and UCLA Instructor.