Window above Thirteen Thousand Feet

Maybe I should not have brought you here.
Paul said to Lori—
the mountain top beneath their feet
the tree line half a mile back.

The air is so thin I see saints through the veil.
Lori said to Paul—
her hand clutched a wisp of cloud
her other hand on a rock to steady herself.

Do you see the miracle workers or the martyrs?
Paul asked Lori—
his eyes searched the present sky
his ears listened for wing flaps.

The everyday saints like single moms.
Lori replied to Paul—
spying women like her mother
who survived husbands lost in wars.

copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney

Thin Air

Pine sap sticks to my hands.
So do seven blades of sweetgrass.

A cherished trail ends at the tree line.
Scree fails to retain footprints.

No need to fortify the eagle’s nest.
A nonchalant god cloaks itself in clouds.

No memory of Moses here.
No shepherds need guard the local goats.

Shout Hullo like a precocious boy.
Echo rebounds many times.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney