Featured Poem of the Month
There are no Eskimos in Alaska.
The natives here are Aleut, Inuit, Yupitword meaning
Real People, the rest of us are virtual,
visitors who come and go like summer wind, not real.
What is real is blue ice, glaciers shouldering
their way across the land, now retreating
an inch a month, leaving moraines, broken
bits of stone to tell their story.
And the earth applauds with green grass,
chokeberries, the poetry of spruce trees
rooting in permafrost, deceived
by the firmness of ice below topsoil.
When summer melts the ice below,
the trees reel like drunks at a party,
telling their story all askew,
holding on to intent, reaching for light.
holding on to water till the long dark
of winter comes and they can believe
again in the truth of ice.
(From the Alaska trip)