Some Words from Emmon

The Mountain

From the thick grass
On the Mountain
I see this will be a
Rich year.
The last two
Were poor years.
And no amount of worry
Or effort of the will
Will make any difference.

I choose to pick and eat
This wild lettuce
And not that one.
How random
it is: (Death)
Without any connection
To the moral character
Of either herb.

NO BLAME, then
when Nature gathers me.

It is always cold
On the Mountain,
Not just this year.
Jagged scarps, forever fogged in.
Ferns in the dark gorges
Steep ravines
Unimaginably rugged...

I am afraid,
If I settle long
On Messeur Mountain,
I would not go back. [will]

OCTOBER


A thousand hills covered
With bleached grasses,
Ten thousand tangled paths,
But no sign of who made them.
Every day, just this,
And sometimes the sound
of wind blowing against the pane.

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