Enga mellom fjella

Letter to Colleen from Somewhere. The trip begins.

This is a picture of a brick road. All roads lead to somewhere. My travels begin today. Tomorrow, Wyoming. Saturday, the Grizzly football game in Missoula, Montana. Sunday, breakfast with Connie. A week at my sister's in Monroe, Washington.

Letter to Colleen from Somewhere

         for Colleen Morrissey

You can't get here from there, try as you might.
All roads that point this direction curve, dip and swerve.
Even blind flight's impossible when dials conspire and swirl.
You've heard of this place: Vortex of Storms. Here updrafts
birth brimstone, drain to depression, hail at its core.
It resides behind myths. No tunnel pierces this fog.
No bridge soars through its mist. It exists none-the-less:
a crossroad of stone and despair some folks have fled from
(and others call life). I write to you, young surveyor of maps,
old assayer of humans that always create them
and note: each life's an event that signifies something.
Yet nothing you've studied could prepare you for this.
This place where geography ends, where rainbows resist.

© Kåre Enga 2007 [164.journal#14]

IMAGES

These became a poetic sketch:

Walking through cobwebs

Brushing willow wands,
a white feather floats from my pocket,
spirals to grass.

Yesterday, water leapt through this ditch.
Today, puddles rest, shaded by cattails.

I stroll past fragrant clematis,
past Solidago's true-gold,
past mudholes of crawfish greeting the Sun.

© Kåre Enga 2007 [164.248] 2007-09-19

I notice numbers: My retired blog, "L'aura del Campo" , has almost 25,000 views. My poem "Speak soft my name"  over 500. Three more have over 400. They help me measure the bricks along this path ... how many more no one knows.

Kansas: 88º on this 13th day of Might, 164 B.E.

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