FEATURED: Absolution and Other Poems
by Nicholas Trandahl
ABSOLUTION
It’s February again.
In the house of the bear,
I find a welcoming stone
in ankle-deep snow,
make a lonely little home of it
as radiance
breaks heavenly
through mountain pines.
There are vernal words
whispered in the light,
words assuring
nothing lasts
forever,
not even
oblivion.
I drive southeast
through dawn-riven winter prairie,
down into Nebraska,
climb up
into pinewoods and hills
where ichthyosaurs and plesiosaurs
once swam beneath a vanished sea.
I watch
for Mesozoic ghosts
as I wander,
thumb wooden beads
of my rosary
and mumble prayers,
eat venison and brown sugar mint cake
before napping on a bed
of sun-warmed pine needles
up on the ridge.
I return home
a little bit lighter,
make my way through bison and elk
as everything
I don’t know
becomes everything
I do.
This whole time,
I’ve hoarded a nourishing word,
but I drop it now
into an icy creek,
emerald artery
pulsing
through winter birch woods,
mainline rhythm of God.
Take this word.
Take it.
In the meantime,
it’ll soon be spring.
At the shrine
down the dirt road,
Saint Mary shakes snow
from her shoulders.
Warm breath
escapes
cold lips.
I take shriveled blueberries
from the back of the fridge,
scatter them
like little wishes
beneath the leafless lilac
at the corner
of the house.
I hope
one or two of them
go to seed,
spread bountiful brambles
to take the edge
off next August.
Oh, that creek
is really going to be flowing soon,
its cold trout-gilt current
taking everything
to the secret places
they need to go.
Confucius said that by forty
a man should have no doubts,
but I still have them
despite the places I’ve gone
seeking truth.
I’ve given
whatever I can.
I’ve been forgiven.
I’ve forgave.
I can’t expect
to be all better
just yet,
but this place
is alright
for now.
GRAND CANYON
Woodstove
burning low,
I replenish it,
smell the pine
on my hands.
Through the window,
a last bloom
of smoldering pink
radiant
to the southwest,
longest night
dawning,
but that touch
of rose
blazing
against winter clouds.
When I see
a pink like that,
I remember the Grand Canyon,
you
and me
at Cape Final
enchanted
by all the different colors
of that great abyss,
some warm,
some cool,
and I didn’t know then
how lonely we were
together,
didn’t know
how dense
we’d become,
two neutron stars
collapsing
from their reddened history
into ghostlike
binary
decay,
eating each other
alive,
and I didn’t know
when we kissed
amidst the crimson cacti blooms
or in the mist-drenched meadow
outside the cabin
we shared that night
that there were light years
between
our lips,
ever expanding
expanding,
a whole universe
pooling
between us,
spreading
dark,
and I think of you now
in the last light
of the shortest day,
step
outside
into darkening hours,
follow
faint trails
of your gravity.
I will find you again.
NICHOLAS TRANDAHL
Nicholas Trandahl is an award-winning poet, seeker, and veteran residing in northern Wyoming, where he currently also serves as mayor of his community. He has had six poetry collections published and has also been featured in numerous literary journals and anthologies. Trandahl has been awarded the Wyoming Writers Milestone Award and has received several nominations for the Pushcart Prize.