-- @3photo in gold bunkhouse circa 1940@1 By what light do we call a day when in the depths of a mountain so freshly stained by glacier, men line a mile in for every hour on the clock. When one shaft closes, another opens weeping men, rock, and mineral like a wound that never heals. At the old portal the breath of the mountain exhales a wind of voices from years past, slowly melting and freezing the packed snow, as though stuffed there with a purpose to silence their suffering. But really, who am I to say in these Gold Rush days what @3is@1 and @3isn't@1, the city dust still on my heels and the smiles frozen still on the faces of the pictured young men who lean dazedly upon each other, smudged with the clearness of a day well spent. As I rub my fingers across the ice in the gaping maw of portal, it is the coldness of those not in the photo that takes my breath away. Copyright © Laurie A. Evans-Dinneen. http://www.unl.edu/schooner/psmain.htm @3Prarie Schooner@1 is a literary quarterly published since 1927 which publishes original stories, poetry, essays, and reviews. Regularly cited in the prize journals, the magazine is considered one of the most prestigious of the campus-based literary journals. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FIVE KERNELS OF CORN [APRIL, 1622] by HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH THE RUBAIYAT, 1879 EDITION: 22 by OMAR KHAYYAM LOVE AND TIME by WALTER RALEIGH TO LADY ANNE HAMILTON by WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER ODES: BOOK 1: ODE 2. ON THE WINTER SOLSTICE, 1740 by MARK AKENSIDE |