the fry in the harbor,
the calm harbor,
not even a ripple
after yesterday’s winds
brought chopping swell
and today’s warm
clear skies,
the fry in the harbor
dimple its surface
like rain.
usually, here
in these southeast alaskan islands
it is rain
that dimples the surface
like rain.
and it is cloud
that clouds the sky.
the sky is clear
like the inside
of bone.
the sky is tangible
like a country
you’ve never visited.
clear,
like a language
you do not
and cannot
speak.
a rolling R
or a shushing sound
where you would not
expect it.
the sky is with you
every single day
of your life,
yet it is still
so exotic.
up in the alpine,
a few thousand feet
above the calm,
fry-dimpled harbor,
there is still snow.
earlier,
my sister
and i walked
up there
into the alpine,
me having to stop
many times,
on account of
lackluster fitness
or
the early mutterings of
blocked arteries
or
the bone powdering fatigue
of depression,
and once we broke
out of the tree line
the snow made its appearance.
mostly,
we walked atop it,
the snow,
unaware of its depth.
during one of our
unintentionally synchronized
footfalls, we
both plunged through
and down
into the snow,
up past the knee.
the sky was clear
like the memory
of our shared childhood.
even if we
make up much
of our memory.
even if we
make up much
of our present.
as we walked down
the mountain
we spoke of
conceptual thought,
the overlap of
human religious
and philosophical
thought,
across culture
and geography
and the harbor
of Time.
all of this is to say that;
if i have enemies
i have enemies,
just as
if i have friends
i have friends.
and no enemy,
no amount of
aggression
will make me
take up arms.
the excitable end
of a weapon,
stupid
and gaping,
will not extend from
the wavering ripple
of my hand.
this i am
clear about.
like a cloud covered sky.
like a harbor
that looks dimpled
by rain,
though really
it wears only
the enthusiasm
of new life.
zakschafer.com 