The Baptist

The moon is upon my forehead,

The winds are under my lips.

Ezra Pound

In my youth, there were nine

sources of water on hand: three

from a river underground, its origin

a kind of wonderment-a green

mystery only the mountain knew.

But what I remember most, time

after time, was the coming of flood

water running down from hills,

and wind that spun out wildness

as it churned up hard on ground,

the whole thing pushed by a moon

big as a swollen pumpkin

when drying came-earth torn up red:

how the mountain showed its wound.