Robert Pack

Late orange light reflected from the lake Leaps up into the mountain’s shade, And suddenly a crouching wind Claws at pale, trembling aspen leaves; A startled elk, foamed water dripping From his lips, retreats back from the shore, His wary head held stiffly high As in an earlier imaging. . . . . Continue Reading »

Now once again the glaring moon, A mirror in the midnight sky, A single flower in an empty field, Evokes the expectation that An ancient truth will be revealed. Who knows from where such expectations come, Some source deluded or inspired, Ancestral intimations that the moon Conveys the permanence . . . . Continue Reading »