Wakeful Hills Poem by Steven Federle

“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.