Passing Through the Dharma Clouds
We climb over gnarled roots, reaching fingers
of fir and pine, balance on slabs and broken
pieces of granite, struggle to gather oxygen
fast enough to feed our weary legs.
We pass through shaded gatherings of trees,
then sun-soaked stretches of stone, the up-thrust
peaks of ancient rock. Though we have lived
for many years in this joy of moving our bodies
in sunlight and air, we are tiny, brief beings;
our blessed lives, that aren’t without their suffering,
are like the new grass of morning that withers
by evening, and more like the beetle that scuttles
across the path, than the placid juniper, or green
and purple lichen. Our climb is but a fading
trace of light in the sky, a glimmer in night
that blinks away. Reaching the top, huffing
with husky breath, we lose ourselves staring
at the bay, the islands, the blue water and one
quiet, white sailboat, leaving no wake.
Mountain Music
In the Lauterbrunnen Valley
In this valley between serrated
peaks of alpine ranges,
glacial water streams
down from jagged cliffs--
long, falling threads,
white with minerals, crisp
as summer light. Below them,
cows graze on green
slopes; they ramble and ring
their bells from steep hillsides.
The peaks strung with falling
water, the bells pulsing
hills and clouds, a terrestrial
harp surrounds me, a lyre
plays the music of light
and shadow, and carries me through
the veil of many threads,
until the spell breaks.
But everywhere,
even in the deepest valley--
a bell, if you listen,
a gleam, if you look.
Passing Through the Dharma Clouds
We climb over gnarled roots, reaching fingers
of fir and pine, balance on slabs and broken
pieces of granite, struggle to gather oxygen
fast enough to feed our weary legs.
We pass through shaded gatherings of trees,
then sun-soaked stretches of stone, the up-thrust
peaks of ancient rock. Though we have lived
for many years in this joy of moving our bodies
in sunlight and air, we are tiny, brief beings;
our blessed lives, that aren’t without their suffering,
are like the new grass of morning that withers
by evening, and more like the beetle that scuttles
across the path, than the placid juniper, or green
and purple lichen. Our climb is but a fading
trace of light in the sky, a glimmer in night
that blinks away. Reaching the top, huffing
with husky breath, we lose ourselves staring
at the bay, the islands, the blue water and one
quiet, white sailboat, leaving no wake.
Mountain Music
In the Lauterbrunnen Valley
In this valley between serrated
peaks of alpine ranges,
glacial water streams
down from jagged cliffs--
long, falling threads,
white with minerals, crisp
as summer light. Below them,
cows graze on green
slopes; they ramble and ring
their bells from steep hillsides.
The peaks strung with falling
water, the bells pulsing
hills and clouds, a terrestrial
harp surrounds me, a lyre
plays the music of light
and shadow, and carries me through
the veil of many threads,
until the spell breaks.
But everywhere,
even in the deepest valley--
a bell, if you listen,
a gleam, if you look.
Daniel Thomas’s third poetry collection, River of Light, was published by Shanti Arts Publishing in 2025. His previous books are Leaving the Base Camp at Dawn (2022) and Deep Pockets (2018). He has published poems in many journals, including Southern Poetry Review, Poetry Ireland Review, Amethyst Review, Vita Poetica, Atlanta Review, and others. More info at danielthomaspoetry.com
We climb over gnarled roots, reaching fingers
of fir and pine, balance on slabs and broken
pieces of granite, struggle to gather oxygen
fast enough to feed our weary legs.
We pass through shaded gatherings of trees,
then sun-soaked stretches of stone, the up-thrust
peaks of ancient rock. Though we have lived
for many years in this joy of moving our bodies
in sunlight and air, we are tiny, brief beings;
our blessed lives, that aren’t without their suffering,
are like the new grass of morning that withers
by evening, and more like the beetle that scuttles
across the path, than the placid juniper, or green
and purple lichen. Our climb is but a fading
trace of light in the sky, a glimmer in night
that blinks away. Reaching the top, huffing
with husky breath, we lose ourselves staring
at the bay, the islands, the blue water and one
quiet, white sailboat, leaving no wake.
Mountain Music
In the Lauterbrunnen Valley
In this valley between serrated
peaks of alpine ranges,
glacial water streams
down from jagged cliffs--
long, falling threads,
white with minerals, crisp
as summer light. Below them,
cows graze on green
slopes; they ramble and ring
their bells from steep hillsides.
The peaks strung with falling
water, the bells pulsing
hills and clouds, a terrestrial
harp surrounds me, a lyre
plays the music of light
and shadow, and carries me through
the veil of many threads,
until the spell breaks.
But everywhere,
even in the deepest valley--
a bell, if you listen,
a gleam, if you look.
Passing Through the Dharma Clouds
We climb over gnarled roots, reaching fingers
of fir and pine, balance on slabs and broken
pieces of granite, struggle to gather oxygen
fast enough to feed our weary legs.
We pass through shaded gatherings of trees,
then sun-soaked stretches of stone, the up-thrust
peaks of ancient rock. Though we have lived
for many years in this joy of moving our bodies
in sunlight and air, we are tiny, brief beings;
our blessed lives, that aren’t without their suffering,
are like the new grass of morning that withers
by evening, and more like the beetle that scuttles
across the path, than the placid juniper, or green
and purple lichen. Our climb is but a fading
trace of light in the sky, a glimmer in night
that blinks away. Reaching the top, huffing
with husky breath, we lose ourselves staring
at the bay, the islands, the blue water and one
quiet, white sailboat, leaving no wake.
Mountain Music
In the Lauterbrunnen Valley
In this valley between serrated
peaks of alpine ranges,
glacial water streams
down from jagged cliffs--
long, falling threads,
white with minerals, crisp
as summer light. Below them,
cows graze on green
slopes; they ramble and ring
their bells from steep hillsides.
The peaks strung with falling
water, the bells pulsing
hills and clouds, a terrestrial
harp surrounds me, a lyre
plays the music of light
and shadow, and carries me through
the veil of many threads,
until the spell breaks.
But everywhere,
even in the deepest valley--
a bell, if you listen,
a gleam, if you look.
Daniel Thomas’s third poetry collection, River of Light, was published by Shanti Arts Publishing in 2025. His previous books are Leaving the Base Camp at Dawn (2022) and Deep Pockets (2018). He has published poems in many journals, including Southern Poetry Review, Poetry Ireland Review, Amethyst Review, Vita Poetica, Atlanta Review, and others. More info at danielthomaspoetry.com
