The Unabashed Heavens Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Easy wounds in the creek that is moving down
From the mountain
Side, like a spear evaporating the colors of spring
Up the cinder paths now blanketed with
Autumn,
Whose kiss no rattlesnake will rightly know,
Up the scarred jubilance of her pregnant sides,
The elk go cantankerously like phalanxes of regal
Hungers,
The clouds motioning of washing machines,
And the masses so far away that there is nary an airplane
In the sky,
Or a woman for me to love; and this is the way her book
Opens and closes,
Wishing for, but saying nothing to cause an inkling in
My memory,
Passing me up like the slender marble hands of naked
Aspens,
Who hold the moon through the stars, panning
The unabashed heavens.