hot coffee, and the maps are out –
the rise out of Box Canyon
an uneven line of red
a map may tally an ascent,
mark the twists in a trail,
lend certain assurances
what it cannot show is emergence
from a stone-heavy world
into the mercy of pines –
into the stalwart grace
of a waiting mountain,
where the rushing creeks sing
and the winds hum along
© Sarah Whiteley
I wake well before dawn
so that I might walk
with the mist and the fog,
each of us finding
our own path up the peak
yet loving the damp bark
of the lofty cypress
in precisely the same way –
like light suddenly unbound,
eagerly embracing all
it can and cannot name
those who would say
a mountain does not breathe
have never placed their feet
where feet have not yet been –
have never found the river
that flows into the mountain
and does not come out again
© Sarah Whiteley
My newest chapbook Wandering Wonderful is now available for pre-order from Finishing Line Press. Pre-orders through March 22nd will have an opportunity to win a canvas print of the cover art. Click for details!
I cannot be the abstract
the city asks of me
I cannot maintain the grind
of teeth, of grime –
the hot seconds stuffed
into dull hours
when I do not go out,
the ghost of going out
rises within and whispers
of how the November woods
still smell of autumn –
of how the sleeping lake waits,
placid with the mountains
etched upon her face
© Sarah Whiteley
I am not much at peace these days
nothing sleeps, not even
the stone of the mountain,
though I find I can slow my heart
the nearer I am to its sky-graced peak
to be alone here is to be still
from the rigors of survival
and for a while, it is enough
that I am I, that the mountain is,
and that we can be awake
in this place together
© Sarah Whiteley
Today I hiked 6 miles through the woods to find some small, momentary peace. The snow (and at times sleet) made it all the more peaceful and I spent several minutes just breathing it all in above the valley. It was just me, the birds, all the forms that water takes, and one lone coyote who left his tracks across the trail. It could not have been more perfect.
every branch
was made big with wind
while we
sat diminished
hunkered down
with steaming cups,
muddied boots,
cold-red cheeks,
together beneath
that orange tarp
cracking
with every gust
we stayed,
shivered, laughing
while others
fled the storm –
a splendid day,
my splendid friend
© Sarah Whiteley
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