A Waterfall Whispers the Way

I camp on frozen ground
where nothing grows

and no one knows
where to go from here.

A cold place of fog
that never lifts or changes,

but a safe plot
without hoot or roar,

where I feel at home but lost,
alone but haunted.

The vapor of my breath rises
with the dawn but hovers near.

A shroud of river mist
cocoons me in ghost rags,

but still a dream of light not from here
brightens a path through old trees.

Through the haze a waterfall
whispers secrets

of how ice becomes water,
becomes steam, becomes fog,

and how in a miracle of blindness
my ears can see the way.

 


Robert S. King, a native Georgian, now lives in Lexington, Kentucky, where he edits the literary journal Kentucky Review. His poems have appeared in hundreds of magazines, including Atlanta Review, California Quarterly, Chariton Review, Hollins Critic, Kenyon Review, Main Street Rag, Midwest Quarterly, Negative Capability, Southern Poetry Review, and Spoon River Poetry Review. He has published eight poetry collections, most recently Diary of the Last Person on Earth (Sybaritic Press 2014) and Developing a Photograph of God (Glass Lyre Press, 2014). His personal website is robertsking.com.


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