What Mountains Do
       

Last night it was raining when I went to bed,
slam-dancing on the roof of my cabin,
and it was raining when I woke this morning.

Rain was pleasant and I would like to think
it induced the dream of Christ I had,
but rain had nothing to do with it.

I wasn't alone. Mary wasn't in it,
but Joseph was—a major character,
he was dressed historically for the part,

and had a prophet's beard that reached
to his knees. Christ was hiding,
and we were looking for Him everywhere

in the barn we were in. Finally,
after a thorough search, I found Him.
He was covered with cobwebs and looked dismayed.

Master, I implored, the weather has cleared
and Judas has atoned. Come out now.
And He did, falling immediately into the arms

of His father who by then had re-materialized,
without the beard. He seemed familiar,
more than biblical. Clearly, he was Joseph,

but he was my father, too. My real dead father.
Master, I gasped, you and I—we are brothers!
Fortunately, before He could respond I woke.

The weather hadn't cleared, but more likely
it was the walk around Kinsman's Pond
that did it—all that purity of air,

and especially the ghostly conjuring that rose
out of the darkness in me like the birches
from the green gloom of the balsam

that clogged the forest on every side.
And in this region, even when the view
is blocked, this is what mountains do to you.

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Copyright © 2018 George Drew All rights reserved
from Fancy's Orphan
Tiger Bark Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission