High Mountains of the Indian Spring

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

The mountains of the spring are far away

From where you stand with tea cup there upon

Your Indian verandah.  Blossomed spray

Of pink on foothill trees beyond your lawn

Swoops barely visible though crowded up

The slopes.  The distance does not matter.  You

Surmise that mountains, trees and blooms each cup

Yourself and your identity and blue

Of Oriental sky together, one

Continuum of all-as-one in brains

Like Buddha’s. William Blake and Saint Paul’s Donne

And Emerson agree in their domains.

  How far away and yet how near you are

    Because you hold inside a mystic star.

© Phillip Whidden