Wakeful Hills - Poem by Steven Federle
“We have become more humble than the rocks,
More wakeful than the patient hills.” Thomas Merton A Book of Hours
The morning fog flows like milk
Through folded dry hills,
Like cream spilled on brown grass;
Then rises the sun, rolling fog
Into shimmering waves,
Before the hard hand of
But you permit no illusion.
I see what is hidden
Beneath the dark oak tree;
Under these dry rocks
What is given to me:
For down shimmering highways
Past white valleys of bone
I’ll glide till I become
The humble stone.
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