`
So says the mountain,
but does anyone know?
That is the pertinent question.
That is how the hills are purple,
maybe only for the night,
maybe only for the moon,
now behind the Earth, lightless
like a black hole in summer.
There the rabbits run,
and the grass is green,
on treetops made of maple syrup.
And honeybees sing to the river,
flowing into clouds,
above steel bridges,
whose hooves are cast iron,
and dig into the riverbed.
Around them, the fish swim,
with cucumbers.
But then, don't you believe in squirrels,
with tails like scarves?
And don't you believe our night on the terrace,
looking at the twinkling of eyes
in the night sky?
`
So says the mountain,
but does anyone know?
That is the pertinent question.
That is how the hills are purple,
maybe only for the night,
maybe only for the moon,
now behind the Earth, lightless
like a black hole in summer.
There the rabbits run,
and the grass is green,
on treetops made of maple syrup.
And honeybees sing to the river,
flowing into clouds,
above steel bridges,
whose hooves are cast iron,
and dig into the riverbed.
Around them, the fish swim,
with cucumbers.
But then, don't you believe in squirrels,
with tails like scarves?
And don't you believe our night on the terrace,
looking at the twinkling of eyes
in the night sky?
`
Minneapolis, MN
April, 2012
