by Marcie Behm-Bultz
A snow pack hangs between sharp-toothed peaks in the distant gorge.
It settles into a long white cloud in the perfect blue sky and at night
it rises to meld with stars that surround the Southern Cross. The
sound of meltwater in November’s Spring thunders in the
far-away, crushing and smoothing the mountains of The
Remarkables. Thorny gorse covers the highlands while
pale yellow broom spills into the in-between. The
melting glacier braids into waterfalls and spirals
into mossy pools, pushing past patches of
buttercups before threading across a
river bed the color of crushed pearls.
Milky quartz flows towards the
Tasman Sea, heating the ocean
and rising to warm the long
white cloud. A series of
signposts inscribes the
dates, of five years ago
that day, where the
glacier began, and
where it lost its
grip on the
Marcie Behm-Bultz is a population scientist and global traveler who bases her poetry in human geography or exotic locations. She was born in Florida and moved fourteen times before graduating from high school. Behm-Bultz has considered papering a room with her passport stamps but is loath to since she’s not likely to reside there for long. Her mother said that she was born with the bottom of her feet itching and was perpetually wandering in order to scratch them. Her literary work has been featured in a number of publications, most recently in those published by the Old Mountain Press. She currently lives near “the bomb plant” in Aiken, South Carolina.