Postcards From Mt. Adams
Animal Voices
Wild blue quietly fades to deep shades of indigo.
The moon shimmers a soft-white iridescent light
that illuminates the star-strewn heavens,
I go walking, just me and my dog.
I watch as the last light takes flight from this mountain valley.
Mt. Adam’s snow-covered summit
where mother earth and father sky once met
now fades to black.
And then a serenade, a mountain lullaby begins.
Frogs croak.
Cattle low.
Dogs bark.
Coyotes brandish their wild animal yelps
–from just beyond the pasture there in the trees.
A raucous of animal voices rise in chorus
drifting up towards the heavens
They offer their hymns of praise and good night song
to the creator of all things
for such a beautiful day.
The Art of Discovery
The crackle of the fire takes me back
To that warm Spring day, and I remember…
The way we played wild and free beneath the snow-capped peak,
chasing dreams that never seemed to end.
Then in one still, quiet moment…
I saw an angel in your face.
A silent glow, an even grace.
Of demons long since exiled
replaced with the peace of saints.
It is here that I discover the art that is you
nestled there between the layers of your skin.
I have felt your spirit, your humanity,
and the words come seemingly without decision.
“He’s a good man,” I say.
Changing Seasons
The mist now hovers above the fresh mown fields wet with dew.
A crispness is in the air, and a sparkle is growing in my eyes.
It is Keat’s season of mellow fruitfulness.
The hay baler’s melodic rhythm
harvests from near and distant pastures
Soon the snow will fly, and spirits will soar.
We will wrap our skins in coats, sweaters, boots, down, and endless winter dreams.
As flake upon downy flake fills the nooks and crannies
of our lives in this mountain meadow.
A blanket of snow falls to cover our sins
while we marvel in the grace and
forgiveness we hold in our eyes
flake by forgiving flake.
Stacking Wood with Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman leans against the woodshed gazing long,
Panama hat cocked daringly to one side,
displaying his full poetic length, I sigh!
That muse-inspired half-grin that spreads across the America of his face,
I pause to admire the egalitarian vision before me.
But the woodpile calls.
Walt Whitman says the snow will soon fly
as back and forth I trod
selecting each individual log for its
cut, color, texture, ease of use, and burn potential.
Stacked neatly there outside the kitchen door row upon row,
Walt Whitman, with raised brow, finger-combs his grizzled beard,
and nods in approval.
Searing summer heat yields to the glory of Indian summer.
Beads of purifying sweat skitter down my forehead as the stack reaches higher and
higher.
Walt Whitman yalps and celebrates my pioneer spirit!
Gray beard flying, arms outstretched,
he spins in circles with wild abandon
in the green and golden field of tall summer grasses.
Soon my body pleads like a child for one more day.
I mutter soft-spoken promises to revisit the woodpile again.
Walt Whitman concedes that Rome wasn’t built in a day
And invites my soul to loaf.
Lying in the crook of his elbow,
his blue-velvet voice quenches my thirst.
The sonorous nightingale warbles verse upon verse
of “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking,”
decreeing our oneness with everything.
Strange and Wonderful
In the early yawn of morning,
There is a time when the veil between the living and non
grows mysteriously thin
Or so I am told.
All alone in my study and in my thoughts applying my trade,
Ever so faintly I hear of pitch and tune
A pleasant song coming from my old guitar.
We know not what is possible, only of what we observe.
I smiled, enjoyed the song, and continued my work.
From that day, where it leans against the wall, saturated with memories from days gone by, it has taken on a life of its own. Garnered respect from its life work.
And on occasion, when the moon is full and the hour is right, once again it entertains a listening, appreciative ear.
