Craig Goodworth, Root Masses, 2010
At the End of the Era
We are born here fortunate
in a light that perishes.
We navigate our dreams,
the ravine fills with fog,
the path crosses a granite face.
My feet fumble for ledges,
fingers dig at cracks.
Men of my generation
assemble in a hill fort
old as the breath of linden trees.
It is everything, this last stand.
I must explain to the young people
who will join us, women and men
clever as the edge of the mountains.
We will all die. That is our miracle.