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Mountain Café

April 25, 2012

Come with me to a time
when a stone was a stone
and light was still light and
a key not rubbed
through a slot
but
buried in
inner workings
still mysterious,
still magic.
Come.

Before us, a mountain,
buds on trees,
clams in the shallows.
In winter, ice.

We will walk (there
is no other way)
and here, partway up,
an inn: two
wood stools and a table
dewy under an arbor
of rose bramble,
an old woman with
a pie.

How can she make it work, you ask, here on the mountain?

A cow. Chickens. Rhubarb
from the fencerow now.
Later peaches, apples, jam
when all else is gone.
Eggs traded for milled grains,
and us passing with
our sad coins.

When we are rested, filled, we
climb higher
still, stopping
only for grand scenes of
where we have been
opening below us
through the trees.

At the top, we are used
up, still panting, still
expecting
more buds,
more wet stones,
ice in the shadows
gleaming, sonic
treasures everywhere.
There is light still.
There is light.

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