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Thursday, April 21, 2011


by Martin Marcus

A glacier in a hoary epoch
dug some holes in its retreat,
filled them like bowls with crystal water,
where the pines migrated to drink.
Pristine was the word the humans thought of
for this lake, the glacier's bounty.
Men who'd walked from Asia found it,
spirits from their minds infused it.
Then a blue and green cathedral,
saintly fishes, god as eagle.
So for centuries it languished
far from rationalization,
moving up and down in cycles
at the wishes of the spirits.

A modern man makes his assessment
now the lake is shrinking badly,
year by year its shore expanding,
day by day its water drying
by the will of mystic forces?
But his head is full of science,
god of global, god of warming.
Native people know the omens,
slowly pound the drums of mourning.
Modern fellow shuffles homeward,
shoulders down in awful guilt
Glaciers melting, seas arising,
shallowing lakes his dismal doing.

Martin Marcus claims to be the oldest poet in the room.