HOWARD McCORD: POETRY & PROSE
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POETRY | POEM 01 |
In The Flower World
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a poem for my son

Wyatt leaned against the cliff
of the narrow cwm between
Lost Peak and The Wedge.
The heat had told him
sit in the shade, rest.
I had been in the same spot
fifty years before, and seventeen
as well.
This day
my hip and knees had sent
me back defeated
two hours out.

The tumbled cliffs in the Organs
are a kaleidoscope of granite's possibilities
so full of richness they never
leave my mind.

Wyatt closed his eyes to let the patterns sink
and under the curtain of his lids
heard a cough.
He looked, and heard a deep cough again.

Something stirred in the brush
twenty feet away, a head emerged,
the long dun body
the flicking tail
and Lord of this Cwm, this Mountain
this whole angelic range of beauty
gazed at him with care.

Lord Lion stepped noiselessly
along the cliff,
unhurried,
walking in his kingdom.

Wyatt's eyes went with him
into the flower world
the Yaquis tell about.
So rare to visit that a man gone there
is blessed beyond all others.

To how many living has Lion shown himself
at twenty feet, in leisure,
without yapping dogs and gunfire
or the sting of tranquilizing dart?

This is the rarest visitation
and the deepest kinship
with All
held those moments in the net
of consciousness
forever.