Imaginary Mountain

1 Kings 19 

Wind howls in the pines, and rain
drives birds and squirrels to their nests
and copperheads to unseen dens.
A limb falls, crackling through its kin
like distant gunshots. Make a note.
Cut and dried, it soon enough
could sit beside the hearth to wait
its turn to burn. That’s how it is
on my imaginary mountain.

Nothing’s wasted here. Not limbs
or lines. Or love. Things in short
supply must be hauled up from
the bottom land. The road’s a bog
on days like this and slick as glass.
Use what’s at hand; it is enough.
Better not to be spendthrift
with things like faith. That’s how it is
on my imaginary mountain.

One would think this place is close
to God, more visionary than
the push and shove of word and hymn
that claim to know the way. But no.
Just wind and rain and limbs that fall
exploding through the trees. Enough
perhaps, but barely. Live for what
the storm will bring. That’s how it is
on my imaginary mountain.