Ecstasy at Salmon Creek

We make the sun burn between us free as mountain air

A warm wide rock to lie on

Deeper than any bed, a pleasure nest innocent as maidenhair

The turk’s cap and columbine, we make them bloom

Wild orchid and lobelia

Never more pure nor alive than the moment trout leap

And quail fly up the ascending fern—

Our lithe bodies intertwine with the afternoon

 

A venerable wave of heat—

 

Sixty feet from the top, sixty feet the waters of Salmon Creek

Falling in clearlight-sunfire cascading into summer!

Oh the idiotic idea of time, the shoe left behind, a leaf

A stone, a blossom, a cone

Stuffed in sack, taken back, mementos of what we cannot own.

But if Eden were ever an earthly place

It is here, and we make it, we make it wasteland or home.

 

 

 

(for J. 2016)

©  Rayn Roberts