Monday, May 16, 2011


Who placed your feet
on stones we’ve not seen,
O mountain?
The underground, hidden road
was surely laid
by a hidden God--
as surely as your legs
yet stand strong
through nature’s long
as if the might
of comets pose no
threat to the range
of your rock’s reach.
Stand guard, O mountain
while tender newborns
sleep or weep
in your valley--
yet let the moon
light the night
for wakeful elders,
pining for passage to the other side.

Who made and makes
your living face,
O mountain?
At night your skin glistens deeper than the black sky,
your hair darker still,
as if space borrows its color from you
for a time, as if you command the sky’s veil.
You are the rock-hewn grave and the dark of night
is the open, empty tomb before the sun rises.

When light first shines your crown is the first to feel her,
your green eyes the first to see her,
your rivers the first to weep for joy,
your mouth the first to laugh lively longing
singing birdsong
cheeks blushing with the pink dawn,
red rocks your lips,
white snow your headpiece
as if you are a bride
You have waited the night,
kept vigil with the moonlamp.
Your Maker is your Groom
The Wedding is each new day.
Celebrate and be glad,
O mountain!

by Troy Cady

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