Thursday, June 24, 2010


From misty heights, the air gone thin, with
frozen hands
     climb higher still
enveloped in white

I thought I was alone.

They come from nowhere, pass in silence,
holding hands, then disappear, the only sound
a sweep of wind,
     their footsteps fade

You don't belong here,
better "There" where when
they sing you know the words.
     And yet ...

I can't not go, they beckon, see.
Too long away, they find you, call.
They hold your silence, live inside you
like the snow--as anchors when
the reaching
     reaching causes you to
leave behind the circle known,
to wander in the wonder of
the fog of


* in the mountains, outside Oslo, another lifetime

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