The pines stand in pockets, soft, fur-lined, so deep you can scrunch your cold hands down into them, warm them up. You can scrunch the rest of you down in, too: nestle in, maybe never emerge.Continue reading "The Pines Stand in Pockets"
Winter tiptoes silently on icy, sharpclawed toes
through the steep-walled mountain valley, over peaks now rimmed with snow
On the forest floor of Prairie Creek as afternoon withdraws
I wait, the gathering of shadows pouring night across my paws
Cathedral pines of Ponderosa, whispering of Firs, and the
clattering of streams whose mountain waters chill the Earth
Gone the chatter of the Magpies, gone the golden autumn glow,
just the silhouettes of Sawtooths and of antelope below
As the starlight thickens on the paths where elk have crossed,
in the shadows pools the silence, while the branches catch the frost
The northern forest bristles in these long, October nights
to hear the clicking nails of winter scratching daybreak into ice
Gawping, my words run jubilant, downstream, a ribbon of gunmetal insistent, persevering, turquoise over a jumble of rounded rocks chattering, a clink of granite magnesium, under clouds glowering emerald flash, suddenly, the sun - gone again, a pool of navy, over slithering sandbeds, whisper of trout, here before you, rainbow, glass-eyed from the shadows, twisting in a silence the stars also speak round midnight, into the soft ears of black bears padding down to drink among ferns, laced with morning dew, ivory mist rising in tendrils of hissing morning light cerulean in cold air. Still, I'm speechless, my tea cooling as I wonder what color is a mountain stream.
We used to say I don't care anymore if I never have money. As long as I have my sweet honey, and a shack in the woodland. — Greg Brown, "Who Woulda Thunk It?" Continue reading "Shack in the Woodland"
If Dogs save no
Yesterdays
and
expect no
Tomorrows,
.......
Continue reading "Poem for Piñuela"