From clinging roads, through hidden, shifting skies
A forest, fixed along the mountain’s rise
Was rooted first in earth it still retains
And only breathes by mercy of the rains
The mist, expanding as it disappears
Too heavy for the air itself, now nears
The soil, a grave for what once cracked and spewed
A casualty of storms that time has hewed
But then, the peaks surrender to the sun
Its heat cascades across the brush-filled hills
The green once tethered to the growth, undone
Replaced by colors that the desert wills
The pass, a seeming slave to what’s occurred
Resounds with strains that only it has heard
Bernard Jacobson is an aspiring poet and writer living just outside New York.
Formal poetry has such a beauty to it, when it’s well done like this one. Also, the imagery was wonderful.