Mountains mere ink blots,
Trees stretch bony arms.
An orb ascending in the vast
Infinity of space.
Nothing infinite about this space.
I can’t read.
Can’t barely breath.
It’s all too real.
History unraveling before me.
There’s nothing new under the sun.
Then the remote glow breaks
Over peaks, higher than you.
Higher than me. Higher than this.
Lake transformed to a
Mirror reflecting other-worldly light.
Is it too much to hope for,
Under the new, full moon?
Curving away, murmuring
The water turns coy.
Dashing past rocks,
Muddy banks and tendrils of ice.
These retreating days are sensory.
The brown lets off a waft of decay,
Insects composting, in late warmth,
A brush of summer on my cheek.
The tawny grass leans askew,
Like a middle-aged woman
Whose good looks echo
In the curve of her cheekbone
Hints of a verdant summer linger
In the long, broken stalks.
A time when the river swelled
Luscious and ripe, overwhelming the rocks.
Today, the ice fingers off branches,
Dipping into the subdued, slowing pools,
Patterning away from edges,
Consuming the river a molecule at a time.
I can anticipate a pillowed white day,
The water converted and still,
When muted shapes suggest an underworld,
Awaiting Persephone’s gentle touch.
Ice melt murmuring like a gaggle of geese.
Like birds babbling in waves.
Trees here, singing in a way,
But not for us: for them.
Three bald eagles.
Lake edged in ice baubles.
Dressed to kill,
Below frosty mountains.
Spiraling clouds whirl over
The sun streaks the dead grass strip
A molten gold lining the distant lakeshore
Between slate, whipped and gray.
Mocha melt eyes,
Smiling at me.
The world softened that morning.
Words such as powder, blanket, wonderland,
Cliched through my senses while I abandoned myself
Behind me the news blared about a gunman
Alone, in the Lonestar State,
Killing children, women, men, in a church,
Bullets rendering flesh to pulp.
I can’t see the rocks out front anymore.
Grotesque gargoyles now muted to
Turtles, bunnies, and puffs,
Crouched under dazzling purity.
The elk bugles, but only
Long after the wolf’s howl.
We pick our way past the rounded lumps,
Put on paths by the shape of things.