william erickson | Poetry

One of the mountains did not sprout legs. As the others stood and shook the plates with their slow and stupendous steps, the legless mountain sat. See, from the roof, the stillness it possesses. Its neverthelessness, I mean. How ceaseless change invites itself upon the fact of durability. How, too, the opposite. Every morning my love and I lace up our hiking shoes knowing with certainty the spider’s lightless home will be crushed by an insistent sky.