In the mid-1980s I lived three months in the French Alps. This poem points toward the Grace of a late afternoon/early evening mountainous return trek to my village, in which I was blessed with heavily falling snow and lightning.
Stealthy winds whisper through nearly behemoth Vercors’ Alpine trees,
who, – otherwise – silently witness my steep descent.
Darkness privileges itself. Profusions of snow pixels – plenteous – cavort en mass.
slowly submit their fates to gravity’s seducing insistence.
these crystalline architectural marvels are refectory to a lightning’s fare of soul candy.
Thunder pounds the rigidities of my domestication.
My rousing sentience drinks deeply on these Earthly and atmospheric libations.