Every Inch Along The Way Poem by Robert Rorabeck

They have tourists buying crystals and
Junk beneath the valley of
The angels: Now that it is snowing, they are
Eating icecream
Next to the geysers of a superficial water park—
Holding their hands over their eyes—
Skiing in the down drift—
But looking up there: there—amphitheater
Of light in her mysterious boudoir where the whitest
Of rabbits lay buried—
Comatose in dreams of spring—wherever everything
Thaws and runs down jubilantly in feral braids
Amidst the aspens:
And I walk up her slopes once more—in a truancy
Of unequalled scars,
But seeing things upon her that cannot be described—
So high above the dictionaries of the tourist's
Schools—
And kissing her every inch along the way.