by Eric Greenwell
I remember
The first mountain I saw
When I drove west
I left everything
What was there before
Wasn’t there now
Except for my passenger
This was emptiness
Her gesture
And I followed her finger
Out the window
The consistency of fog
With fine edges
Like a white dress
What wasn’t there before
Was there now
Trees
Where trees ended
Snow
Where snow began
Clouds
Where clouds landed
The radio looped
Through half-broke static
Like hundreds of brushes
Brushing paint around
What was there before
Was there now
As when a stranger says
Remember me
Eric Greenwell grew up on the Mississippi River. Recipient of Writing in the Wild and Centrum Writers’ Conference fellowships, he is the 2016 PEN/Margery Davis Boyden Wilderness Writing Resident. His work has appeared in Willow Springs, Lake Effect, Sugar Mule, and is forthcoming in Boston Review.