Poem Seventeen: Notes on Cold Mountain

Poem Seventeen: Notes On Cold Mountain

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Oil of death. Your metal of honor. 

This mountain is yours. 

Your hands are stained with blood

from the mountains, you cannot hide them.

Who can interpret the sorrow of war

into the matted field of wildflowers?

Can war be as green as spring?

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I rise from the dead 

white as hyacinths. 

Knit skeins of bodies together

to make a boat to cross 

this white river. Glint of gold coins

in the mouth of the ferryman.

Pull the skin close 

around the shoulders

to make it again living.

I am white as hyacinths.

Rain floods the hands 

of the mountain. I am 

the oil of death. Blood 

of wildflowers.  The feet 

of the winged messenger.   

Do you believe in life after death?

There is war in the veins of young men.

I am a photograph stolen 

of a river in sudden release. 

Would you kiss a ghost?

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