Log Cabin Chronicles



Taos Mountain
black-crowned peak,
lordly ornament of
broad-shouldered hills,
hold the clarity of distance
around each green leaf
of this cottonwood tree,
this gallant pinto mare and her foal
sporting in the meadow after supper,
these two small boys
busy at making war,
and this troop of skunks
cantering down the road
plumes elegantly aloft
in the piñon-scented air.

Taos Mountain
cast a cold eye
on alibis and accusations
dissolving in the sunlight
into hairy orange clouds
that float above this immense green arena
where everything is seen,
and every vision is pain
until it melts into
the sacred Blue Lake
hidden in the hollow of your ankle.

[EDITOR'S NOTE: Stanley Fefferman writes and make photographs in Toronto.]

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