At The Extreme Poem by RIC BASTASA

at the extreme
coldness is the coldness of the arctic snow
and hotness is the hotness of the volcanic flow
he got them all and he survived them all
his palms know what are all these things all about
but he never stopped touching
he touched the rays of the sun at noon
with his hands opening in prayer
he touched the frost with his fingers
he disliked his fists
he opted more for the silence of the dusks
and the patience of some longer nights
at the extremes of seasons and events
he continued talking to the trees and all its leaves
to his horse to his dog to his door
to his chair to his bed
to his stair
he kept his prayers

He lives. He is very much alive. His solitude his nest.
His prayers shaped the wings of a white bird.
His stone his silence. His strength, his spirit.