At first, I think I’ll write an ode:
to the snowdrops finally
crowning this hallowed summit,
to nature’s ineffable persistence.
I’ll envision the peak blanketed,
not merely dusted, by snow,
postcard-perfect, framed from afar
by scarlet maples.
I’ll weave the ballot I cast
last week, my hopes fluttering
away in the crisp breeze
of the mountain’s foothills,
into a feeble metaphor—
It’s never too late—that crumbles
like withered foliage
in my hands.
Because the only firsts
these days
are ever-higher temperatures,
stretching up to the stars.
The only glass
being shattered
encases blood-red mercury.
How it oozes.
I don’t want to think
about where we’ll be
4 years from now,
yet alone another 130.
And, even when reminded
of Fuji’s majesty,
the only poem
I can bring myself to write
is an elegy.
Carissa Coane's poetry has appeared in Body Odyssey (Heroica), Proud to Be (Laurel Review), and various journals. She is on staff at Asymptote Journal and #FemkuMag. She is 21.
