And the Mountain Burns Read online

until sunrise.

  Broken

  Tossed about by wind whipped seas,

  bashed and battered,

  smashed and tattered

  on razor rocks

  she lay impaled

  —broken.

  Once she’d balanced on ocean’s crest,

  her laughterr echoing the vast expanse

  as her frail ship bounced

  from watery mountain

  to fathomless deeps

  that now are gone

  leaving only harsh rock and stone

  that rip and tear

  her fragile flesh

  until she is beaten down to bits

  of nothing

  like sand upon the shore

  that is carried by wind

  and drowned by sea

  in the depths of unknown

  and—broken—

  she rides their angry storm

  and somehow survives.

  Rebirth

  In solitude,

  in the quiet space of day

  the broken one found peace.

  For one micron of moment

  she breathed in the chill air,

  smelled the death of summer

  in the dry crumple of leaf,

  saw the absence of life

  in barren branches

  of mossy trees,

  heard the stillness,

  the nothing,

  and knew she was not alone.

  For one brilliant, gleaming second

  she and the world were one—

  one in death

  one in stillness

  one in sleep—

  and in that single moment

  of togetherness

  a spark of life flared

  hope sprang forth again

  and together

  the winter of soul and of canyon

  looked to the spring

  for rebirth.

  Sea of Words

  Lost in a sea of words

  that toss me about

  like drift from wreckage

  torn

  by pounding rock and surging surf.

  Waves of noun and verb

  wash over and spin,

  twirling me round the depths of sound,

  and I,

  a mere fragment of something more,

  have no hand to pick or choose.

  Embittered,

  desperate,

  I search for one,

  just a single adjective

  or special noun,

  but the wave of words push on

  throwing me where they will

  and I

  a mere scrap of life

  am powerless

  in the force of their course.

  Then,

  just as I cave,

  give in to the whims of sea and word,

  the sand rises

  and welcomes me home.

  At long last

  I can see the battle

  was never lost

  that in fact

  there was no fight

  but instead a union

  a joining of word’s power

  with my meager hand.

  The sea knew its way all along.

  The words tell their own story

  and my job,

  my only job,

  is to listen

  and become part of their whole.

  Yearning

  Hidden beauty embraces

  in the coldness of winter,

  fingers of wood huddle for warmth,

  naked in the howliing winds,

  barren in the snow,

  and they,

  just like I,

  hold hope for the spring

  when wind dies

  and warmth comes again

  and we can finally uncurl

  and sprout safely

  and grow our wings

  that reach for the sky

  to carry us on floral breeze

  to safety.

  We are one,

  these trees and I,

  for our spirits both long

  the same—

  For the newness and birth of spring.

  The Great Salt Lake

  The pregnant sky gives birth to the moon

  while the silver lake, salty and still,

  records the memories of life upon her shore.

  Barren, spurned, cursed and shunned

  she weeps her tears through the rain

  —and yet she watches.

  The antelope and deer do not drink from her shore,

  never nurse from her breast—

  and yet her face carries the reflection of life around her.

  Today she shows me the golden lining of evening clouds

  and the copper hills that guard her bed.

  A lapis sky and opal moon, gulls swimming in the air,

  held captive by the wind on strings of spider silk

  while her skirts of sunset swirl

  in hues no painters pallet can appreciate.

  Tonight I stand at her shore and drink her in;

  not the bitter salts of her body,

  but the essence of her spirit,

  the mirror of her soul feeds my own.

  Her breath of night wind tugs at me,

  caressing my hair, drawing me in

  like a lover’s kiss.

  Her scent is earthy, ripe with life

  and the memory of death.

  I breathe it in and choke—yet drink it deep

  as her sky of passion boils and brims

  with lightning waltzing across the waves.

  Her face darkens and the reflection lies

  broken within the storm—

  and now I stand in awe of this barren lady

  as she records the memories of life.

  The pregnant sky gives birth to the moon

  —and the rain begins to fall.

  Karen E. Hoover has loved the written word for as long as she can remember. Her favorite memory of her dad is the time he spent with Karen on his lap, telling her stories for hours on end. Her dad promised he would have Karen reading on her own by the time she was four years old … and he very nearly did. Karen took the gift of words her dad gave her and ran with it. Since then, she’s written two novels and reams of poetry. Her head is fairly popping with ideas, so she plans to write until she’s ninety-four or maybe even a hundred and four.

  Inspiration is found everywhere, but Karen’s heart is fueled by her husband and two sons, the Rocky Mountains, her chronic addiction to pens and paper, and the smell of her laser printer in the morning.