Summit Poem by Leo Briones

Beyond the azure stir,
the olive whisper,
the pewter echo—
I stand naked flesh to frozen wind
on the precipice between
that which rots to earth—
infant of grass,
mother of granite,
matriarch of dirt—
and that which is the melody of memory—
to snap the flat snare,
to boom the fat bass drum
to hum the swirling refrain—
to remember
death before the middle time
and your dying body,
black bone and flesh to slow steps,
Who is the father of the new age?
Who is the mother that nurtures lava and mud alike?
And here waiting, knowing
that time is like palm pulp on the wind
paste to dust
to the end of time
and seed again—
we are waterless bones gathered
in hollow caverns and tidy cemeteries.
But on what gale shall the spirit soar,
to what mighty kingdom shall we gather?
River of sparkling life,
pearl streets to prove the awakening.