“Long stately procession,”
snow pearls rise
north-south pendant, tiny
arc in the girdling
Pacific rim fire.
Though some point
like Mt. Hood and
Jefferson, more bulge,
domes curve
above serrated peaks.
Tahoma and Shasta
spread gigantic glacial skirts
far above forested ridges
above us.
Snyder says, “West coast
snowpeaks are too
[fucking] much!”
They defy knowledge,
spurn our yearning for
contact, lure us with
boots crampons ropes,
cameras brushes and pen.
Braided by glaciers, they
mask fiery throats,
steam below snow,
their sleep temporary:
St. Helens blowing
her head off one May
morning, 1980.
desire as we trace
their curves,
stretch our gaze
of ourselves.
Shining horizon anchors often
cloaked behind thick grey
curtains, they exist apart—
we so want
to be
part of them.
—O. Alan Weltzien, from The Snowpeaks