Warmth in ersatz spring
Mountains tap their memories
There will be more snow
Tag Archives: mountains
The morning watch
He sits behind the screen
the sun’s minute hand
remaps his curves in warmth
With not much else to do
his morning’s work is
out there living traffic
to watch and note
force marched ants in single file
small brown toads
leaf rustles out of sight
the swooping zizz
of dragonflies
A hummingbird returns
to drink then preen
this makes him smile
even they must stop and rest
The small world quiets
starts to wait for shade
when high sun moves away
raptors drafting on high currents
He sees and understands
Feeling stiff he’s up to find
another patch of sun
A whoofing sigh then
sleep, his head on paws
How is it?
How is it
on the mountain, friend,
your spirit free
to roam the peaks
while others only visit,
awed by your home?
Can you see
the wonders that
your children are,
carrying you forward,
best parts mostly,
through life’s flow?
Do you know
I miss you still,
regrets dimmed,
a mind’s eye memory
of boundless energy,
on the night we met?
Is that you
beside me in the woods,
silent escort through
the marshes, dogs in hand,
then safely home,
here for the asking?
Yes
_____________________________________
For Mike, whose birthday was today. the photo is of Mount Lafayette, where his ashes rest.
every day, love
we settle, cozy with each other,
life together flowing,
knowing we won’t leave
this place, our coupleness,
while our hearts are here.
quiet moments, though less weighted,
felt more clearly than crescendos,
simple, loving gestures
saturated with delight,
flowers you have chosen,
waiting on our table,
lovely, in a jar or pitcher,
knowledge of these growing things
and bird songs,
gifts I brought to you
through our acquaintance,
love’s osmosis
passing bounty back to me.
you brought me here, to
nights on mountains,
walks through wetlands,
skiing on a snow deep pond
in winter moonlight,
summer swimming ledges,
hearing loons or beaver slaps,
thrushes lilting song in hemlock woods,
rhododendrons bent with snow,
discoveries that echo joy,
and I suppose, my loving them
is now a gift turned round again
to you
Life With Horace 