Mont Sainte Victoire 1. See the mountain as a mountain, its angular shapes and shadows, its brush and chiseled limestone frozen, yet moving under the moving clouds. I knew the walls, edges and cracks. My fingers read the rock like brail as I climbed higher than my fear — those were the immortal years. 2. Then see the mountain as something else, a white rose with streaks of grey or a timeworn face. In the rain, it turns dark blue like a wet dog with oceans of wind that sweep a clean facade. Once I lived in a hermit's cabin reading the Greek philosophers. I washed outside in a field of thyme, the towering presence behind, and felt closer to the gods. 3. See the mountain as a mountain. Anchored, monumental, firm. When it hides behind a myriad of cloud, an echo of its form, one thinks of the age-old proverb — 'something boundless is happening, but few are aware'.
Originally from Atlanta, Georgia, Helen Steenhuis has been living near Aix-en-Provence since 1989 working as an English language teacher. Her poems have appeared in The French Literary Review, Equinox: A Poetry Journal,The Poetry Library: Southbank Centre, London, and Cumberland River Review.
Amethyst Review 