On the road where no one goes

 

 

 

On the rough road where none will go,

 

At the pine-limbed summit,

 

And steep, green-mossed hills;

 

At the rim,

 

The cliffs grow

 

Red;

 

The September sage brush, in the wind, yellow

 

Mountain bluebirds follow,

 

Silver-winged through the oak stand;

 

Ravens call, in their own tone of eloquence,

 

A magic rune.

 

Here there is no one

 

No one

 

No one

 

No sniveling thief who steals and kills

 

Then hums an ill-timed tune,

 

Only the boundless sunswept sky and her children, dancing

 

All else is gone,

 

Only the echoing peace instead

 

That overfills

 

The land, vast and long

 

And now that the din of the world will cease

 

When the moon

 

Of yesteryear

 

The feathered dipper seeks,

 

Comes a clear

 

Sign

 

That the enchanting

 

Ones, laughing

 

Within the coyotes’ dawn

 

Song,

 

Will return

 

To inhabit

 

The beauty of desolation,

 

The blue-running creeks

 

Of pebbled silence

 

And diaphanous fern

 

In the holy dark, shining.

 

Written September 2015.

 

© Sharon St Joan, February 2016

 

Photo:

Elaine R. Wilson / Wikipedia Commons / This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.5 Generic license. / Mountain Bluebird, Cabin Lake Viewing Blinds, Deschutes National Forest, Near Fort Rock, Oregon