The One Forgetting

Rochelle Goldstein
 

No one knew when it began to descend,

caul of mist over the hedge rows,

over the bedded impatiens.

Over the calla lilies that lay in waiting.

Soundless, the mist settled, seeping into road, river,

over sycamores.

It stamped the great mountain in silhouette,

shrouded that Buddha of sense in grey.

No one saw when sometime in the night

a band of mist circled its peak and

and seemed to lift its top 

so it became a floating island

tethered to something it could no longer name.

The only sound was the caw-caw-caw

of---oh what is the name of that bird,

the one that can make an echo of a whole mountain?

 



Issue 13


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