Alpenglow
looking out over the spaces between rumpled blue ridges
the high, thin air like a soft cloth freshly shaken out across a table
spaces that grow deeper and more resonant in this uncomplicated light
while shadows nestle and soften themselves in their lengthening curves
a silhouetted hawk rises silent on circling currents
watching for the small movement of a tasty morsel darting
between the shade of sparse grasses and tumbled stones
as sunlight catches the hunched white shoulders of granite
the sound of a creek threads through mossy rocks
tumbling down cold and light, a susurrant green song
answered by unseen birds in the lichen-strewn pines
and crickets tucked in niches of a warm thicket
gold and soft red delicate blushes hang where
the horizon dips and swings under the weight of the sun's sinking
subtle tints that cling to the tip of a brushstroke of cloud
their colors shifting with the unhurried descent
— and the sun is gone, the last wash of color seen
lingering on the upper lip of granite
the final breath of rosy-gold
before the night sings
Written for the word of the day, alpenglow, at Poem of the Day.
the high, thin air like a soft cloth freshly shaken out across a table
spaces that grow deeper and more resonant in this uncomplicated light
while shadows nestle and soften themselves in their lengthening curves
a silhouetted hawk rises silent on circling currents
watching for the small movement of a tasty morsel darting
between the shade of sparse grasses and tumbled stones
as sunlight catches the hunched white shoulders of granite
the sound of a creek threads through mossy rocks
tumbling down cold and light, a susurrant green song
answered by unseen birds in the lichen-strewn pines
and crickets tucked in niches of a warm thicket
gold and soft red delicate blushes hang where
the horizon dips and swings under the weight of the sun's sinking
subtle tints that cling to the tip of a brushstroke of cloud
their colors shifting with the unhurried descent
— and the sun is gone, the last wash of color seen
lingering on the upper lip of granite
the final breath of rosy-gold
before the night sings
Written for the word of the day, alpenglow, at Poem of the Day.
posted by MB at 12:33 PM
6 Comments:
It's a challenge to write a poem that lives up to that sublime word, but you did it.
This line is lovely: "the high, thin air like a soft cloth freshly shaken out across a table." Wonderful simile.
Also, I love the sounds in "crickets tucked in niches of a warm thicket." All those short "i's" and consonants sound like niches in a thicket.
I can almost picture the scene. Beautifully evoked. I simply don't know how you do this on an almost daily basis!
It's difficult to paint the scene with the color of words, and you did it. I can see it now.
where ever you point your poetic gaze, you paint the scene with subtle detail. soothing rhythms lull.
This poem was an intensely visual experience to write, trying to find the words and phrases that would show what I saw -- the verb 'paint' fits well here. Amy, thank you for noticing the cricket line, I was particular delighted to find that aural embodiment of the meaning.
Thank you all for your kind words. Writing poems is a lonely business, and connecting with others over them is meaningful to me.
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