Relatividad Positiva

Easter morning, they go out early,

Cross the swirling Galisteo on a log,

Teetering, vivid in the cold, lemony light,

And, straggling, they climb to an ancient place

Filled with the eyes of seed and failing stone.

Then among the heaved rocks of the crest,

He settles down, wedged, and watches the clouds,

And, far below, the brown river turning its silence

Against the steep, soft banks. Far beyond thought,

He imagined himself there waiting for something.

He saw, at a great distance, a patch of colors,

Pale blue and troubled grays, that had not been there

The morning before. It was not part of the butte.

It was a man sitting without purpose, composed,

A quick, casual stroke in another landscape.

Whatever sense made in that moment swept

Itself away perfecting. The rocks were cold.

The micaed grains of ten thousand summers

Clung to his hand, peppered his patient shoes.

Ants. Shards. The gentle scrape of time

Working its way up through narrow trails,

Stone darkened a moment by a passing hand,

And the white smoke of a small all these

Conspired within him, and his heart thundered

Far off and, then, nearer and nearer.

She called him from where she had waited below

At the steep turning up to the leveled pueblo,

A few vague reminders, a few true finds

Piled in small squares and wanting more,

And low, dry grass, and twigs, and meek weeds.

He called back, looked once more to the west

Out beyond the rising blue, and, slipping, sliding,

Picked his way down into the gray eclogue

Of twisted tamarisk trees and here and there

The half-protruding, bleached bones, sun-stoned,

Wind-washed, unsocketed ruminations of cattle.

Gerlach, Lee. Selected Poems.
Athens, OH, USA: Ohio University Press, 2006. p 79.
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