STEVEN W. BAKER

STEVEN

W. BAKER

THE CRYSTAL STAIRS

(in memory of those who perished 9/11/01)

The first falling leaves are yellow

Orange and red will come later

After the coming chill descends.

My intrepid cat-friend and I

Know these New England woods

Like the backs of our paws by now.

We have walked these rocky trails

Even in the dark of night, though under sun now

The impending doom of green surrounds us.

The earth reveals her ancient bones here

Hard gray granite boulder outcrops

Stark against the leaf dotted soil.

Nothing here has really changed

Seemingly since the rocks were born

Since the birth of my race or my cat’s race.

She still investigates every squirrel

Though any prey are in little danger

Her hunger taken care of by her owner.

But we still seek revenge on our enemies

Even though so very loathe to kill

When death rains upon us, one must stand.

Every year the green turns first to gold

And every year the hatred springs anew

The hunting and the killing go unchanged.

Yet I know of a place in “our” woods

Where a hidden trail leads up a hill

Of massive house-sized boulders.

At one point the almost-path climbs

A wide vein of sun sparkled white quartz

Chiseled by water and ice almost into steps.

I was amazed when we found it

And have never seen anyone else there

The usual litter of cans and bottles missing.

Whenever I ascend those pure white steps

I like to pretend I’m going somewhere better

But at the summit there is little to be found.

Just the same lichen-covered granite

The same yearly rain of yellow from green

The same hard truth about what we are.

Yet as my cat still hopes for her catch

It is my nature, I guess, still to hope

That someday we will climb pure crystal stairs

Out of the muck of this world we have created.

©Steven W. Baker

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA