New Chronology

by Nicholas Trandahl

New Chronology

I

Land of boundaries.

            Amber moonlight

            behind empty branches

                                    as black

                        as fractures

            in the face of time.

And this canyon

            in the dark— 

                                                pines,

                                    old snow

like tattered papal robes,

            walls of red stone

            shattered by frost,

and the creek

with its trout

like dark shadows

in crystal currents,

                        and the trails

                        of deer and turkey

                                    beyond,

and the wild hush

            of winter hills,

and the frozen night

outside the cabin,

its moon and stars

like watchful saints,

            undeniable,

                        silent.

            Halo of smoke

                        and wishes

                                    rising,

                        rising,

                                    rising

            in the final hours

            on this side

            of the creek.

II

Shallow now—

            so shallow.

                        Hours

                        thinning like smoke

                                    from dim embers,

thinning

like the ghost

of Benedict XVI

            ascending today,

                        ascending

            from a monastery

            in the Vatican

                                    toward

                        the old paths

                        of Virgil

                                    searching

                        for that light

                        which had become

so damn hard

                        to see from the shadows

                                                of Rome.

So shallow now,

here at the end—

                                    so easy

                                    to let go.

            Fingers

            in frigid water—

                                    avenue

                        of living crystal.

III

Time—

simply,

                      entirely.

            Time

            flowing

                        over stones

                        tumbled

                                    into sand,

                                                around Polaris

                                    up in the endless loft

                                    of the northern night.

Time.

            Always time.

                        Time

                        narrowed toward dawn,

                                    toward

                                    a cold grey

                                    beginning, 

            a new chronology—

                                    quiet, still.

And then a deer stands

from the tall dead grass,

                        looks 

            toward the pink glow

                        to the southeast.

This day

will be a little longer

            than the last.

Nicholas Trandahl is a U.S. Army veteran, poet, newspaper journalist, and outdoorsman living in Wyoming with his wife and three daughters. He has been awarded the Wyoming Writers Milestone Award and has been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize. He has published five collections of poetry and has appeared in various anthologies and literary journals. His latest collection is “All the Color, All the Wind.”