Cedar Breaks, July 2021

 Snowstorm last night drifted north

and left an atmosphere of

cotton clouds against the blue

This world seems rounder way up here

Red cliffs in ribbons with spangled light

A remnant cool on my skin with

dampness in the mold

are helping me to breathe again

How sick do we become before the deadwood

is consumed

and bluebells and bumblebees return

I need this purging of the sky, I want my lungs

to hold it in, this mountain air

Nepenthe in a fallen grove

So weary and so old

so close to heaven

in my bones

My Chair

My dear old chair with ecru shawl

Companion to my lonesome

Thoughts these many years,

So staid and ready to receive

An ancient sage

A modern myth

A holy word of yonder age

Without complaint,

I hope to bring

Your worn and weary cloth

A simple happy offering

Before I sleep

 

Wheeler Peak

 

Darkling summer clouds and lightning bolts

Three ravens tacking through the storm, appearing

            in and out of mist

            as if to gather poems from

            a concentrated sky

And hail, uncertain of its gravity, just

bounces off their feathered backs

 

The heaving lungs, the throbbing legs, are

            finally listening to the higher gods

Protected by old shattered stones, where snow

            just barely melts

Where percolation steeps

 

Alone

 

And covered from                  

the air

            the cold

            from wind that tears at tearing eyes

 

The sundered firmament unfolds

A mountain river being born