Parable

Ten thousand holy mountains prop the sky, Endlessly turquoise. Safe beneath them lie

Small villages, all mulberries and blue smoke.

Unsummoned, sleeping, how should the ferryman know

How his boat would shine, deep-gunnels under snow,

When, noon long washed down-river, he awoke?

of stories this month > Get unlimited stories
You've read  of  free articles. Subscribe to continue.

Unlimited digital access $11/month.

Get unlimited Monitor journalism.