Young Orpheus by the Bogaciel
Great presences coalesce out of mist, out of forest.
Time bends in on itself like dunking one's head in a river
and realizing no sense of length; dreams are visions
of what might be; and what is, is distillations of dreams:
a boy holding an owl between outstretched fingers
the owl looking at me without concern as though
it were born there in the fragrance of that suspension
the poised being of a flower stem-balanced among ferns
a pebble single as the first star shining from the river floor
the young friends toeing their sneakers in the duff
smiling that he always does this, not doubting the story
that a snake came nonchalant to his side
then from forest shadow an owl alighted to join the snake
and he gathered up the bird as the turning earth
does its seasons, as the sky folds in its clouds
and without strain makes each feel welcome....
Fifty years now have been plucked as melody from the lute.
If ever you read this you boy now man, please send me
a feather, a verse, a shape in the swirls of dream
that you still walk and sing by the river.
Time bends in on itself like dunking one's head in a river
and realizing no sense of length; dreams are visions
of what might be; and what is, is distillations of dreams:
a boy holding an owl between outstretched fingers
the owl looking at me without concern as though
it were born there in the fragrance of that suspension
the poised being of a flower stem-balanced among ferns
a pebble single as the first star shining from the river floor
the young friends toeing their sneakers in the duff
smiling that he always does this, not doubting the story
that a snake came nonchalant to his side
then from forest shadow an owl alighted to join the snake
and he gathered up the bird as the turning earth
does its seasons, as the sky folds in its clouds
and without strain makes each feel welcome....
Fifty years now have been plucked as melody from the lute.
If ever you read this you boy now man, please send me
a feather, a verse, a shape in the swirls of dream
that you still walk and sing by the river.
Walker Abel has published four volumes of poetry. His first book, The Uncallused Hand, won the 2014 Poetry Prize from Homebound Publications, as well as Gold in the 2015 Nautilus Awards. Walker led University of California environmental studies wilderness trips for more than two decades. He is retired now and lives with his wife in the Santa Cruz Mountains.