Issue Twenty-Two - Summer 2013

Arapahoe Pass

By Tim Grassley

Up the dust and indian paint brush afternoon
the sun rolled like a stone
between my fingertips.
Even with the columbines
and valleys sprouted high green,
I couldn’t take my eyes
off that regretful ground—

Jenny sang like water between sips.
I remember losing her
at the divide the first time
she stood in dusk
and cried at the words
I wanted back.

Not with penance.
Not with the same words
rearranged and built into the stone

I kept rolling through
my fingers to feel
the miles yet to walk before
she might be near me again.

Copyright Grassley 2013

Tim Grassley spends much of his time exploring the Selkirk and Rocky Mountains, hiking, fishing, snowshoeing, and writing poems about urban and wilderness landscapes. He lives in Spokane, WA with his wife Jenny, and is completing his Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at Eastern Washington University.

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