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Mountain Poems Cover
The Santa Cruz Mountain Poems - 1972


Fog

Fog ghosts the trees across the field.
It softens the cold, as one by one
my relatives rise from the grass,
gather their flaps of skin around them,
bow, and pass on.

I Will Climb the Rain

I will climb the rain.
Its echoing voices ask me to come.
They drop holes through my skin.
And what the holes once were
fall through the earth,
calling the dead to rise and begin.

Evening

I trudge toward the dark.
Behind me, my footsteps flutter up,
gold‑edged in the late noon air,
and float toward the sun.


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