Sandstone, smooth to the touch –or so you think–
but tiny microscopic grit roughens your fingertips
for you fear to explore the surface with your flat palm
out of reverence and because the sign outside says so:
Ne touchez pas!
Sienna undulations above and below,
bat life disappeared when the first archeological pilgrims arrived.
Seasons here are indistinguishable
and so is time absent
of taste, sound, and smell.
Yet these environs capture a very specific period
wholly gone despite its holy remains:
Rudimentary lines dancing an ancient ritual,
spears, once flying, suspended in mid-air
a split second from the belly of a deer
inside this cavernous narrative.
Spirits spreading across a totem arch
for bounty and serenity
betray what lays behind:
Stacked shades of grey, blind trailers
on concrete blocks in dusty gravel paths.
Except for a bare-chested man
under a truck beyond repair and a few
barefoot children kicking rocks,
the place is void of life and color where a sign reads:
Alcohol beyond this point $1000 fine.
Back on the highway, a Carnival cruise bus belches
Northface gear by the dozens into a restored road house
where Alaskan brew gushes and foams
like the white caps on Copper River.
Northfaces complain about ever more
expensive permits and shorter seasons
while the First Nations can hunt caribou all year round.
—
Dr. Susann Moeller, Vice President of the Ohio Poetry Association (OPA) and Vice Chancellor of the National Federation of Poetry Societies, is an award winning bi-lingual poet, and editor of the eco-poetry anthologies, Open Earth I, II and III. She loves to write in the “plotting shed” of her garden turned urban wildlife sanctuary, dances in random places, and believes animals are better people.
