Hunting For Love Poem by Elliott Rosenberg

Two drops of water,
Kinetic in an Arctic sky,
Dance around a lightening rod,
Courting each other with care.

And so earth births,
A sanctuary of glaciers over northern clouds,
Where yews card heavenly villages,
Cradled in endless time.

Maternal cries echo,
Off stiletto mountain peaks,
For its fettered ravines are corseted,
Beneath a Welkin star.

It's foothills are veiled with bridal shrubbery,
Shading fauna from enlightenment,
And I ask myself nonsensically,
Where to build a place of internment,
A nest to swell the winter,
A cobblestone of eminent domain.

Answers spittle slowly,
sifting in powdered snow,
frizzled in dead calm,
Manifesting Squamish lore.

Water was everywhere,
As escarpments sprout from a nebulous deluge,
A thunderbird spoke,
carrying a trident to fixate a nations obelisk.

Haunted by oral tradition,
By wine of fermented silence,
At Cheakamus I sobered to adulthood,
Mourning my tribe,
dredged from tumid water.

But I laid the traps,
To vicious currents that took my folk,
And they returned to me untouched,
Virgin to envy and age.

A dreadful misfortune befell us,
Covered in blotches of midden-heap,
Catholics converged proselytizing flat-foreheaded brethren,
Eradicating Potlatch from culture.

But patrilineal lineage abstrusely lives,
Congealed in plush conifer flora,
iced teardrops rebirth to heaven,
Sparsely among the stars.

So the cycle of love begins,
One misfortune at a time,
Harnessing its power forward,
From the heart that defies sovereignty.

For freedom hunts itself,
Committed to run away,
To a vallecular slope,
In an unknown terrain.