no accumulation endures — if you believe
that mountains live forever, think again
look beneath your feet! each time
you cross a stream you receive a silver coin
the coin of the only realm that matters—
let this be your treasury — you can never
spend it, not in the time it will take
for these mountains to wash down to the sea.
true wealth is standing barefoot in a cold river
with no need to count anything
I recently had the immense good fortune to spend a week hiking the Kungsleden trail in Swedish Lapland. Well above the arctic circle, the sense of space is almost incalculable. Everywhere is running water, clean enough to drink as it must have been in most of the world at one time. What we have done to our poor world…
the last true place
we
infect this planet
like a virus, mutating
to fill every
niche
where
have all the giants
gone?
do
they sleep,
or were they swept away by our
speed?
are
there still fairies?
surely, there must still be
fairies?
sit
here
by this stream
on the very roof of the
world
the
midsummer sun is soft and everlasting
sleep and nonsleep are
one
listen
to the voices of the
waters
to the deep moaning of the
stones
these
are old voices
voices
that precede
words
that speak of a truth underlying
memory
this
was once your
language
the
voice of your own beating
heart
these
are the vanishing
voices
of the last true place on
earth
© J.A. Fink 2013
old wood
this is a country
of sharp stones and small
flowers, deep snows
and dry summers.
we sing here
but we’ve learned
to sing softly, melding
our voices with birds
and the wind
with the moans of the earth
as she turns.
here lies the old wood
broken and bent
here is the teacher
who’s weathered the storm
who’s learned to stay low
and to split without dying
here is the teacher
who knows to be still
for seasons on end
awaiting the bloom
come to us father
bring us your body
now splintered and stained
bring us your dust
and your flowerless branch
come to us father
and sing us of time
so that we might sing
to our children.
© J.A. Fink, July 2013
