Wednesday, January 14, 2015


by J. Mark Beaver

It’s tragic
the way that everything falls away
when you name it:
those there, looming over this
here, their darkness,
their ability to catch the light
from that, there, hanging brightly.
It sounds so ridiculous to say it that way,
but there they all are:
the sun in the sky
over the small green earth, the peaks
that pull the horizon so close, so high,
glowing, their valleys blue-black
with shadow.
In our eyes they are the mountains
that we were promised: immutable.
But in word
they may as well be made of sugar.
They melt under their names
as under a hot running tap.
I could say nothing,
I should
give up singing these empty psalms,
hold your face tenderly between my hands
and turn it towards the view.