These are poems of the natural world, of light and dark and the changing of the seasons. We find Tu Fu chanting a poem deep in the Alaska Range, a man who becomes a bear during his morning walk, a world of light carved from a piece of ivory, and walruses in their home beneath the ocean deciding if they will offer themselves to a hunter. Not all of the poems are set in Alaska. There are poems about growing up in a decaying mill town and the suicide of the poet's mother and how the past is always with us; however, the poet returns again and again to the conviction that the world itself is sacred--an ancient belief we need to recover. 

Autumn in the Alaska Range

Drive north when the braided glacial rivers
have begun to assume their winter green.
When crossing Broad Pass, you might see
the shimmer of caribou moving on a distant ridge
or find a dark abacus of berries in the frost
on the trail to Summit Lake. Beyond this,
the endless mountains curving like a scimitar.
And in the querulous mind, the yearning heart
a sudden immeasurable calm.
 
 

Rowing Toward the Spirit World

After a long day of splitting windfalls
his neighbour had culled from the woods,
his back ached and his hands were covered
with pitch. The ground was still frozen
but spring's red haze was everywhere.
His thoughts turned to the Yup'ik who live
on the vast delta beyond the mountains.
What brought them to believe that everything
embodies spirit, even lice, even stone?
When the axe once again found the block,
he imagined a spirit emerging
from a light-struck chrysalis of heartwood.
When he looked up at last, a boat-shaped cloud
was rowing slowly toward the spirit world.
 
 

Solstice

There is little snow on the ground when
you and the dog begin your morning walk
on this the shortest day of the year.
This is the season of gathering cold,
the fading memory of spring.
Light flows slowly through the woods,
a light that you could harvest like grain
or scoop into your astonished mouth
the way a bear scoops honey until
your bones dissolve and you can never
return to the life that you were living.
You could do this if you dared, but you have
other things to do, so you keep on walking
telling yourself that this will happen again.
 
 
 

For the Sake of the Light

The lantern cleaned and put away
after a long winter, I sit by the window
writing about the last snow
turning to mist beneath the alders.
Long before dawn, I can see
the glacial mountains to the west
flecked with blue and braided silver.
Soon bog candle will bloom in the marsh.
For all our sadness, melancholy and regret,
at times it is possible, even necessary,
to believe we are here for the sake of the light.

(Copyright Tom Sexton, 2000.  All Rights Reserved.)