Wakeful Hills


“We have become more humble than the rocks,
More wakeful than the patient hills.” Thomas Merton A Book of Hours

The morning fog flows like milk
through folded dry hills,
like cream spilled on brown grass;

then rises the sun, rolling fog
into shimmering waves,
before the hard hand of
simmering noon-day.

But you permit no illusion.

I see what is hidden
beneath the dark oak tree;
under these dry rocks
what is given to me:

for down shimmering highways
past white valleys of bone
I’ll glide till I become
the humble stone.


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