On top of those low mountains the surprising snow lingers.
Here in the valley beside the small stream, a snow of almond blossoms.
A congruence, then, between high and low, or is it only the eye
playing its old game of this is like that?
How much we’ve learned from these resemblances,
the white horses of the waves, the white spume of their manes
flying behind their fierce, measured charge to the shore.
To make the image whole we see, behind them, a flash of the sea god riding his chariot.
And when upon us a bolt of lighting hurtles like a spear,
we think of the hurler and meet, for the first time, the sky lord.
We must give him a place on which to stand and so, heaven.
And when the sweetness of spring softens our small wills, the Goddess
comes sailing on her shell into the bay of our wondering.
I know I have left out their dark brother, but he is never not here. The mountain
snow will melt. The almond blossoms, already, have fallen from the trees..
by Nils Peterson