Now that you’ve passed-through woods
deeper and darker than these
— climbed into eternity —
can you tell me, when our hearts stop,
and we’re poised among the mysteries that gather
around the bridge that we all must cross,
whether or not what we’ll then see
resembles this blustery Adirondack scene?
Here, spring contends with a devastating winter.
Ruthless winds, forever wailing,
have ripped gnarled branches from pine trunks.
On the brink of collapse, stripped white-birches
lean on devastated poplars, teeter and creak in gusts,
but they’ve dug-in just enough to prolong
their questionable ties to earth.
Wet snow whirls in mist imbued by light
— but from where does the light come —
from the last glimpse of the last morning,
or from the first glimpse of ever-lasting peace?
Somehow, in this cruel cold, bushes flower:
small yellow petals spotted with damp flakes flutter
in the breezes of a kinder season;
perhaps they draw warmth from far beyond this place.
The brook breaks free of its icy shroud
and flows past tremulous shadows
that I would not dare to venture through,
not without you as my guide to lead me.
But is there, I wonder, really much to fear
if the clues revealed in this Adirondack glade
hold true for that shattered second
when life fades?
Gregory Lucas writes fiction and poetry. His work has appeared in many magazines such as The Horror Zine, The Lyric, Blueline, The Ekphrastic Review, Literary Juice, Pif, and Neologism.
