The White Mountains Poem by Robert Rorabeck

Roads into narcolepsy:
Returning into that land after all of the fireworks
Are sold,
And their holidays forgotten in their fashion:
Even the birds have
Migrated,
Eating the ferris wheels of butterflies along their
Way:
Going here where arrows lie amidst the
Silver mountains
Where Geronimo used to smoke in golden rings:
Where once there was so much trouble,
But now there is only movie theatres that show
One movie a week under
Green lights
And the sundials of the cliff dwellers and their
Dried sun in the canyons of human sacrifice:
And tourists, sometimes,
Who don’t want to get as high up as Colorado:
Yes, they come here too-
Taking their children amidst the faeries’ woods;
And the bears lick their lips,
Wondering if they should talk to them- it is where
I spent five years of my post adolescents
And felt myself in the vanishing woods
Underneath the stolid graveyards where my
Grandmother is, underneath the white mountains.