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Show 57 Alpine Requiem In May, high snowmelt sings in silver threads over wakened earth. A chill, sparkling shroud draws silent from the resting form, once human. Below and westward, the valley is a cupped emerald. Warm air floats up canyons, calm and woman-sweet. Ancestral pines toss their twisted shade like blankets of afternoon sleep over abandoned arms, closed eyelids. Limestone thrusts, grey and voiceless, uninscribed, not recalling who or why. The season opens in fragile perfection*, the tentative green of glacier lilies on the ridge, remote and heaven blue where nothing was forgiven. (Naomi Peak 1977) |