In the Granite Seam
A narrow cleft in weathered stone,
Where spray and mountain seepage cling;
They rise in velvet caps alone,
Content with what the shadows bring.
The Carving Stone
No quiet mirror holds the sky,
Where water breaks the mountain bone;
A rushing white that will not die,
Turned sharp against unyielding stone.
The Sentinel in the Mist
A bare gray spire keeps the ground,
Stripped clean of needle, cone, and crown;
The quietest watch that can be found
Before the frozen dark comes down.
Suspended in the Blue
The bog holds no wind today.
Only the weight of sky fallen inward,
Where clouds drift upside down
Through five feet of peat and silence.