DEATH AND THE MOUNTAIN
You’re like a mountain made of warmth
That births a river made of touch
Where stones of time have tumbled forth
Catching the light that loves so much.
The dark that loves is what we feel,
However, in our nighttime path.
Look how open and bright she comes
Together with us, coming death!
She is the mother in the rose,
The burrow, and the sainted breath.
—from Rattle #82, Winter 2023
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Annie Finch (from the conversation): “I was a middle child, overlooked in a lot of ways. Poetry kept me company. It became my spiritual heartbeat. I spent a lot of time alone outside in nature, and I would sit and recite words to myself over and over. It was a kind of self-hypnosis. And finally, my mother was quite a serious poet. That’s probably the most important factor of all. When I got a little older, I saw her writing poems, and I would share mine with her, and she would share hers with me, and I learned a lot about her frustrations. I think on some level I’m kind of carrying out some of her dreams.” (web)
