Montana Seeds

For Eugene

Gone, I was the bristle in the brittle pines
looped fractaling along the highway bends.
Mine were raw quills, of goose and porcupine;
mine the rock brains; mine the hands

that slapped wet prints upon the breaching stones;
a tremulous, confessing risk of joy;
the silver in the sockets of my bones;
the sun-bridge on the little wrestling bay.

I grew from roots of efficacious dreams.
I learned my name when others lost their own.
The precious glints all settled in my streams,
most beloved when they were most unknown.

And in my stems, I trembled with the Christ,
whose edges warbled me, by trunks, by resined cones
shelved and seedy with a hundred dormant lives
each, if undying, doomed to stay alone.

Because there is a life that does not live.
There is a death I know that does not die.
Hid down the streamy bends, with tipple and with give;
brustling toward the pollens of our brittle pines.

Paul J Pastor

Paul J. Pastor is author of several books, most recently Bower Lodge: Poems (Fernwood Press). He serves as a senior editor for HarperCollins, and contributing poetry editor for Ekstasis magazine. He lives in Oregon.

'Montana Seeds' has no comments

Be the first to comment this post!

Would you like to share your thoughts?

Your email address will not be published.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

(c) 2024 North American Anglican