I’m mountain ranges from my home
And heat is dancing up the road
I can’t recall what made me leave,
Was it a burr, a bar, a goad?
A wandering scholar sang your praise,
Extolling stations on the way;
How steep the trail, I didn’t ask
How long the trek, he didn’t say.
Unnumbered times I’ve cursed that bard
And damned each dark, abandoned shrine,
Each woman who forbad a bed,
Each inn where they refused me wine.
Contesting for my forward foot
Distracted me from how I went;
Better I never noticed that
The path began a slow ascent.
Until, at last, I feel you near
Like some pursuing, taunting elf.
I hurry on, now, in a sweat
And keep my curses to myself.
Frank Osen lives in Pasadena, California. His work has appeared in various publications and is currently forthcoming in the Evansville Review and the Comstock Review. He won the 2008 Best American Poetry series poem award and was a finalist for the 2008 Morton Marr competition and the 2006 Howard Nemerov sonnet competition.
