Path Without Any Kings Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Once again a path without any kings:
Several hours taken up the slopes to the watchtower
To see all of the valleys already burned
By the fire—I seldom have time to
Wonder,
Teaching school down where the creeks have cut
The valleys like seesaws—
And the weathervanes look ludicrous up against
The chapels of her weddings:
But it is almost near where my grandmother and aunt
Lie buried—
They will never know of my weddings, or how
I found my way up to her repeatedly—
And laying off my gear in the holidays of midnight—
Held my breath to a show of comets and airplanes—
As my dogs painted their snouts into
The raspberries
Wreathing in the lazy summersaults of wind atop
Of that summit where almost anything could be observed.