I camp on frozen ground
where nothing grows
and no one knows
where to go from here.
A cold place of fog
that never lifts or changes,
but a safe plot
without hoot or roar,
where I feel at home but lost,
alone but haunted.
The vapor of my breath rises
with the dawn but hovers near.
A shroud of river mist
cocoons me in ghost rags,
but still a dream of light not from here
brightens a path through old trees.
Through the haze a waterfall
whispers secrets
of how ice becomes water,
becomes steam, becomes fog,
and how in a miracle of blindness
my ears can find a way.
–Robert S. King
Robert, the sustained other-worldly setting seems so concrete and real that the metaphor doesn’t come into play until the end. In retrospect, “camp on frozen ground” should have tipped me off.
I have always listened to waterfalls, having grown up near three and spending nights and early mornings on Lake Cumberland…
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