June 9, 2013

Behind the Hill by Steve Klepetar


Last night I walked in moonlight behind the hill.
A hundred stones were piled there, shining in a pyramid of light.
The stones were eyes, and each could see a different truth.
One noticed how water sprang from an artesian well,
One made the sound of an elephant giving birth,
Another understood the deeper meaning of theft.
One found a bluebird behind an incandescent leaf
Which sang as if the dawn had come and broke the silent air.
One stone gathered cabbages, one brought a looking glass,
One stoked the fire as it burned to a blue flame.
All around, fireflies sparked and jiggered near the underbrush.
Some stones wept, some kept their counsel,
Others seemed as if they would speak, but silence prevailed.
If I were mad, I would have kissed the stones
Or polished them until they bled 
Or forced myself to regard their essence as my own,
But, as always, I was sane, trapped in my rational mind
Wandering sleepless, writing down these notes.






Steve Klepetar teaches literature and creative writing at Saint Cloud State University. His latest collections include two chapbooks from Flutter Press, My Father Teaches Me a Magic Word and My Father Had Another Eye. His book Speaking to the Field Mice was recently published by Sweatshoppe Publications.

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