Yosemite

    by Luke Evans

Some worlds lay lost and never found,

but California can't allow for such fantasy.

They say a glacier carved it out some eons

ago when the world was young-blood,

but it's aged since then.  Perhaps, then, it's best

that no one saw me enter, take his hand,

sit with him while we watched the evening news.

He had changed since I was a child, when the world

was a new place to be discovered, and not

some old trickster with a scam up his sleeve.

He had envisioned worlds like Yosemite

without ever seeing them, had explored them

in dreams and told not a soul.  There was a time,

not so long ago, that I would have shared

the smile in his eyes, but that too was gone,

it seemed, like waterfalls in summer

and the youth I thought we'd never lose.

Everything in the end turns to dust,

even him, right before my eyes, and only

a brilliant purple sunset with a gray-faced moon

could make it right, if for a moment,

and find the lightness behind a clouded-over eye.

© 2010 Luke Evans

Luke Evans specializes in water and words, sometimes confusing the two.  They do not make good bedfellows.  He has written many stories and poems, some of which can be found at Autumn Sky Poetry, TQRstories, Etchings, and The Externalist.  Do not confuse them as his creations.  He is merely a witness, indicting the beauty of the world and all those in it.