dreams but begin

of such is wonder








it thrills me today
to be the first and only one,
since the snow days ago,
to trudge up the old Indian road by the prong,
a way over the mountains used for thousands of years,

as I get higher and higher
the snow doubles and redoubles
from inches to near a foot,
often my boots sink in
until the snow reaches toward my knees,

like frosting that hides a cake’s imperfections,
the snow smudges lines
and makes me guess at what lies beneath
the soft cushiony curves,























a few times on the trail water moves enough
to clear its solid phase away a bit,









and I can see clarity, movement, the rocks beneath,
the living heart of the water itself,

each time I cross the prong
the rocks are fat with snow







and ice grows around anywhere water splashes or drips,










I feel as a child in a playground,
with every hard fought step up the trail
a joy of play and wonder,






my camera snaps and snaps
to hold what moments it can,

if the adult in me had not had to manifest
for a few hours in the morning,
dealing with the future in terms
of the grounds at the cabin,
dealing with the past in terms of the history
I shepherd, preserve, and today share,
my foot would be loose enough to leave earlier and go higher,

we are such stuff as dreams can but begin to capture enough
for us to begin to fulfill their promise,









today is wondrous in how well I can first be as an adult
and second how I can drop away responsibilities
and as a child find myself
where snow and mountain and high valley
pull me into a world in which my power is only to marvel.








by Henry Walker
March 5, ’10