N a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 0

DAVID COPE

For Antler, after the storm

after whiteouts & deep freeze, the moon hangs silently above mounds & river,

currents move beneath ice jams & broken trunks, mad traffic racing beyond—

on Madeleine Island elder ghosts shape birch & pine, craft crossing waters to

spirit an old woman to sundown, last ripples before the moon, still mirror

where faces stare back in the dark: for the poet has paused to sing the last

elegiac lullaby for she who bore him to this life, his hand tenderly pulling aside

aging tresses that she might see the clear day. the silent hours pass & still he is

beside her in her calm passage, even his poems flown beyond him now,

still in the back pockets of coast-bound boys, in the hands of he who dreams

he’ll strike a pose atop El Capitan, who strips naked & worships the sun

atop Audubon, those racing to the wild shore for succor, attuned to the elder

murmur along the silent path now become Broadway, Manahatta. still

the poet passes the night, pausing only to share sighs with his other side, his

lifelong love who faced down Death & sang to tell the tale. still his hand

clasps his mother’s in Time’s sureness & dreams that once bore flesh,

the childhood song that promises light in shimmering lake & waves—sing

softly in his honor, her honor, under the moon by the great lake’s shore.