Plucking the peak’s granite from Tyndall’s gorge,
the glacier churns off the face like a hatchet
across pine bark. We are trailblazing the shores of
alpine lakes, bouldering with side steps, slicked
with cold water on our sneakers. Simple joy,
wonder doesn’t tire. Light on the underside of
lily pads, in cracks of rotting driftwood we lift,
creek-stomping for mayflies along the Nymph.
Our eyes imagine a view from the wall, over
Hallett’s crags; ears nipped by the drag of winds
across Dream Lake. We’re waking to an afternoon
in June, astonished at the snowballs in our hands.
We fling them sunward, the glare and tint breaking
like firecrackers, moments that explode in beauty
and we may never get back.
Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets, and writes poetry - all hoping to create home. He and his wife live beside a dilapidating orchard in Indiana, where he tries to shape dead trees into playhouses for his four boys. His poetry has been featured in Whale Road Review, River Mouth Review, Club Plum Journal and Ekstasis Magazine.
Featured image Emerald Lake by Jason Barnes CC / BY 2.0
