You Are Here
Enigmatic messages from mountains
are in themselves an answer.
This early, among the dot-dash
droplets of ice on the bending grass,
there is the language of feet
where the hare
is a soft explanation in the snow
and our boots go towards a happy end
which is always someone else’s story.
There is no wind to speak of
except in whispers from the north,
overheard when the water no longer talks,
no longer says what you already know
somewhere in the blood.
At the pass the sign says
"You are here"
A knowledge the rocks hold to,
the plants embrace the edges of this certainty.
There never is anywhere else.
Even when the door closes
and the windows bleed a meagre light
you try to hold
this last piece of the puzzle tight.