On This Mountain

Shawangunk Mountains
(Near New Paltz, New York)

The Original People put a curse on the white people:
if you want the land so bad as to take what is not yours,
then you can never leave it.

Then the Original People departed into the water of stars.
The land became sometimes swamp, sometimes clumps
of useless dirt. The mountain kept its promise.

Pine trees became stroke victims, birds forgot to sing,
river’s impurities turned brown-red blood.
The white people could not leave the mess they created.

Roads vanished in mist, crevices split escape routes.
The mountain remembered its promises;
it had eons of experience with patience.

Just like the trees held promises of fire, or stones
knew darkness, or owls pledged to hunt small creatures,
the mountain knew the value of keeping its word.

Like fronds returning in spring, or frost easing
into infliction, the mountains missed the Original People
who respected the earth, singing praise like meadowlarks,

taking only what was needed, only when necessary,
replacing what they could, thanking earth for providing.
Mountains had decades of memories.

The white people only had grievances.
They tried to bend to earth to their will.
The mountain was not impressed.

When the Original People went away,
they closed the way behind them
tangled with brambles, thistle, webs, and vines.

The Original People went away as hawks
over tops of the mountain
until they were smaller than river stones.

The mountain grieved. Its tears were thrush eggs.
The mountain cried like a mother
with a still-birth child.

The Four-Direction Winds carried the sadness.
The geese took moans of umbilical cords.
Wild horses were heartbeats of loss.

You ask me why no one leaves this area.
Now you know why the night cannot sleep,
why clouds clash like rams,

why the mountain covers its hands over this area
with shadows and harsh words,
why I feverously praise every day.