Waking Thoughts and Other Poems
by Chelsea Fraser
WAKING THOUGHTS
I.
Steam rolls off the roof across the street,
sunlight alchemy bewitching water again.
The magic unfolds in inches to unfurl
a disappearing act. The sky in cahoots
dissolves the apparition as it comes.
II.
A cloud is taken from the dew,
animated by morning light
to fly off the roof across the street.
III.
It could almost be a mountain
in these seconds, clouds of steam rolling
over its peak and apparating away
above the neighbor’s roof.
IV.
Pieces of sun dance on spider threads
screening in my porch along the jessamine
trellis. Whistling birds tell stories
to their friends, diving and swooping
one by one to catch a breakfast worm.
V.
All the invisible reveals itself,
in whisps and shafts that sharpen suddenly
before the veil closes again, and opacity returns
the ordinary world to us. But we cannot return.
We have seen the other Real,
the real we all rely on underneath material substance—
even the steam of a morning cloud dissipating into day
or the breath of warm air reaching into the cold
bears witness that there is more.
There is more.
TESTAMENT
I can almost always see them,
blue and rising on the horizon’s shoulder,
my mountains: maybe Paris or Sassafras,
Table Rock or Caesar’s Head.
If you drive north, 385 toward Greenville,
you’ll crest a hill just past Haywood,
and there’s the best view in town—
stacked three or four rows deep:
mountains.
I can almost always see them,
even shrouded in the mist,
even from the lowest dell,
their presence looms a larger echo of the hills
I sit between. Visitors vary:
many not impressed
in comparison to greater heights.
But ours are older than theirs,
mountains, still.
I can almost always see them
testifying, near or far—
A holy work: to stand.
A holy work: to wait.
A holy work: to be a mountain.
I can almost always see them,
and we call to them in joy,
every time. Every sight, a celebration
of the steady hills that hold us
here below. And I, too, stand,
And I, too, wait.
And I, too, can almost always see
His presence all around me,
rising up.
Standing with me, near or far.
Raising up mountains.
Moving them. Moving me.
Raising me up.
I can almost always see them.
They have been my gift from birth,
my neighbors and my fellows
in these foothills, raising faith.
CHELSEA FRASER
Chelsea Fraser is a wife, mother, poet, musician, and arts administrator, as well as a consultant for emerging poets and writers with The Way Back to Ourselves. She is the author of a poetry collection titled The Mother Tree. She has been published in The Way Back to Ourselves Literary Journal, Inkwell (formerly Ekstasis Magazine), The Dewdrop, Vessels of Light Journal, Calla Press, and others. Chelsea has also been a featured poet at Inkwell creative gatherings and speaks regularly on poetry, art, and faith.