I Call to the Ski Slopes of Breckenridge
I call to the ski slopes of Breckenridge; I call to the trees on the slopes of Breckenridge; I call to the snow and the ice hanging in their branches; I call to the snow on the run and the melted layer iced over; I call to my son, to my son in his thermal clothing, to my son Twenty-five years old and snow boarding, headed into the trees. I call to him to tumble off the board, not to worry about looking clumsy, not to worry about finishing the run. I call and I call, but he does not hear me.
I call over the weeks between then and now to the hospial and time of death: 3:30 December 28th 2000 but my son does not tumble where I want him to.
I call clear as the moon, single eye I howl beneath, a coyote licking pebbles from a wound. I call and I call. The wound weeps holy water over my eyelids, hands, knees, feet that carry me the rest of my days.
In the snow, I see sadness crystallize, hear my voice force the follicles in my body to burst along their single seams, spread seeds, the seeds I see in sunlight and my son everywhere, everywhere I call.
|