Three Days on Cloud Mountain
Before sunrise, we arrange ourselves
cross-legged on floor cushions or perched
on wooden stools, our legs bent back
and tucked under. We are here to practice
simple things. Sitting. Breathing. And later,
walking. Rain thrums the roof and drips
off the gutters. Closer, the soft susurrus
of breath lulls us like a tranquil ocean.
In and out. On and on. Until the brass
singing bowl hums 1, 2, 3 –
and we slowly transition onto mossy paths
tossed with yellow leaves. We walk
single file, black umbrellas held high.
We walk towards nothing. We walk
to feel stones beneath the soles of our feet.
To feel the gentle wobble of proprioception.
Back home, illness stalks my husband
the way the cougar that owns these woods
may be tracking us now, as we walk
and practice silent attention, becoming
better company to what we fear.
When I return to ticking clocks
and heartbreak and my sticky attachment
to the way things used to be, will I
remember how to watch my thoughts
release and drop, like these maple leaves
that fall in graceful, desultory spirals?
I hope I can remember. It’s my choice.
I could be anything.
An open umbrella. A leaf, letting go.
Judge’s comments:
The immediacy of this proprioceptive poem composed in present tense captivates. We are folding our legs under ourselves and meditating along with the speaker who deftly juxtaposes worries and danger, reminding us that peace is always a choice.
Linda Drach
Linda Drach is a poet, public health policy manager, and volunteer writing group facilitator for the nonprofit Write Around Portland. Her poetry has been published in Bellingham Review, Cagibi, CALYX, Cathexis Northwest, Clackamas Literary Review, The Timberline Review, and elsewhere. She lives in Oregon and studies and teaches at The Writers Studio.