Sunday Poetry: Robert Ward

Lyric Poem with Metaphors

A crescent moon lying low, the horizon holding
all that's holy, and the mountains shaping
the sky. Day behind, day before. A mountain
pass carved from lava spilled from the Earth's
heart. A pine forest burned and the snags still
standing, the mountains remain, implacable,
hard as rock. The road winds up, down, all
around, still passable, but should She writhe,
restless in Her sleep, even that would fall
away. The River rising, springing, Athena,
full born, from the rock, attended by many
small, sprightly mammals, still runs Her
course, finds Her way to the sea. All's right
with the world. Touchstones. As the wind
rises, westward, and the small rains do down
rain, so the heart seeks home: and all's right,
for the wind rises fair in the west; She smiles.

Robert Ward