Water’s slick glass boulders, round
radiant glaring lights, surge forward
forward to dash the cliffs—
toss their atoms across the slate top
where I hide
behind a cold tree.
What movement caused you? What titan
moving, moving, moving through.
Sun-yellow winds wince my eyes,
flood my ears red—
God’s belly-deep groaning plead
from lake and trees’ lips;
I don’t fear, no, I tremble.
In the old, age-hardened snow I sing
in the quiet sunlight rustle
between collapsed pine shaped by the will of a bent ground
and the willful living boughs reaching—
“praise Him all creatures here below,”
a song for moving air to take.
Sunlight suddenly now on the heads
of so many pewed saints—
a pulse, a long-slow gold bloom,
fades with a passing cloud—
and again, a pulse
through, within, suffuse our dust plumes
lighting wreaths on tops of heads,
thoughts passing through holy.
What ancient burden moves,
purges bodies from us.
Will Montei is currently in pursuit of a Masters in Teaching at Seattle Pacific University. He has been writing for the post calvin since it began in 2013.