A distant fortress of rock, to shield, protect, give warning, shelter…Fort Rock (Oregon) and the surrounding area provided shelter to humans thousands of years ago.
To write is mining gold from wells down deep
in earth. The treasures hide their faces, sleep
away from light. Advancing from my place,
approaching caverns of the words, I pace
my steps, climb fences, sometimes have to leap,
or even tiptoe, hushed. Sometimes I creep
around the edges of the caves and trace
the entrance with my eyes. I see the space
where writing mines its gold in wells down deep.
They’d scurry if they heard me in my Jeep.
Now cautious, I swing down, I slide and sweep
along stone walls, soon coming to the base.
I hear words partying. O, will some race
to open doors for me, to let me keep
them? Writing’s mining gold from wells down deep.
Sometimes I wonder what else I should write.
Where are the mines I’ve not tapped into, bright
with diamonds? Are they far too deep to chip
with chisel? Ready, hand upon the grip,
I go spelunking in the cave of words,
hoping to find them plentiful as herds
of cattle on a hillside. In the dark
my eyes adjust. This place, austere and stark,
fills me with mystery, a kind of dread:
Do I possess ingredients for bread
that satisfies? Do my words hit the mark…
or are they swallowed by my muse’s shark?