Treasure Island

Steven Federle

(1951 / Cincinnati Ohio)

Wakeful Hills


“We have become more humble than the rocks,
More wakeful than the patient hills.” Thomas Merton A Book of Hours

The morning fog flows like milk
Through folded dry hills,
Like cream spilled on brown grass;

Then rises the sun, rolling fog
Into shimmering waves,
Before the hard hand of
Simmering noon-day.

But you permit no illusion.

I see what is hidden
Beneath the dark oak tree;
Under these dry rocks
What is given to me:

For down shimmering highways
Past white valleys of bone
I’ll glide till I become
The humble stone.

Submitted: Friday, August 30, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, September 03, 2013

Do you like this poem?
0 person liked.
0 person did not like.

What do you think this poem is about?



Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Comments about this poem (Wakeful Hills by Steven Federle )

Enter the verification code :

There is no comment submitted by members..
[Hata Bildir]