In Shadow and Silence

Beside the Soda Butte where the river

lingers vaguely amid the lupine,

the yarrow, and the alpine grasses,

bison lounge ‘neath copse of aspen,

chewing absently, placidly.

Under azure sky, bespotted

by plaintive clouds whose shadows fell

and danced upon the valley floor,

blooms dip their heads in solemn repose.

Here in the tumbledown wilderness,

there grows a rose.

Eagle soars through lofty expanse.

Marmot anxiously circles in quiet

anticipation, gazing up

as that gaudy orb dimmed; fled in

celestial occult into

interminable and utter

darkness. Each bird and beast forlorn,

into chaos led as the moon,

jealous, claims vapid victory.

In the shadow and the silence

there grows a rose.

Hollow, unnatural night grows

muting the high-country air as

the first twittering of night-songs

rise in slow fettered confusion

yet all remains deathly still til

cold, veiled peaks adorned in purple

vestments appear as ashen dawn

crawls laboriously from

its unearthly captivity.

Shapes form. Phantoms depart. Revealed

now, queer shadows bloom, misshapen

from tree and beast; bold escapees

of some unwholesome Neverland,

being forcibly reformed by hands

unseen, into their native states.

The breath of life resumes as death

retreats, mourning fleeting triumph,

into utter annihilation.

The river babbles beneath the

ancient bridge, whose timbers yield slow

to rot and decomposition,

singing sweetly as it ever flows

to points unknown. Still, from shadow

there yet grows a rose.