Seeking after that sweet golden clime*

Nothing fills the chasm of your absence
like the crest of a wind swept summit
the arm of summer warm on my shoulders
and the craggy echo of September sun
reflected in the face of a placid lake

*with a nod to William Blake

she brings me dragonflies (for Aysia)

with wide eyes, wonder-full
and outstretched arms

she comes to me

I have a gift for you
something I found

delicate hands lift
the jarred amber insect
      
vellum wings gravely
drawn under its body

perfectly still

Poet’s Lament

what courage, to sacrifice essence

on the altar of misconception

to those who may not know

enough to plunge the knife

when I lie on these stones

when darkness draws 

me into his arms 

I do not mind the quiet

*Seeking after that sweet golden clime

nothing fills the chasm of your absence like a wind swept summit and the arm of summer across my shoulders
*with a nod to William Blake

Grand Junction July 20 - 22, 2007

I cannot find it in me to write a poem about that weekend: The sun setting my arrival in Grand Junction, the virga gray over Grand Mesa lit by drifting rays, and the splinter of light slicing a bit of rainbow.

It is beyond me to compose the desert; all her reds and golds bowled by Books, and Monuments, and Grand Mesa. How does one define Grand Mesa? Evergreens and volcanic rock skirt a hundred lakes and aspen groves applaud the wind that conducts afternoon lightning shows, thunder echoed in their clap.

How Saturday night, when the tent was pitched next to a single, white columbine, the rain came cold, and we escaped the downpour by sitting in the cab of the truck sipping Knob Creek and talking through the chatter of rain, then hail, then rain punctuated by booming expiation. And how afterward, when the fire was blazing down to cooking coals, we filled time drunk and zipped away.

How does one compose this beautiful? I cannot give you a Sunday night storm approaching from the east as the sun sets behind us in the west. The awe of sitting in the Colorado National Monument, under a shelter overlooking Book Cliffs, watching rainbows rise from the valley where Independence Monument stands red and resolute in the dusk of day. The lightning cutting caliginous curtains while swells of thunder roll up the valley and wash over us. I cannot put the chill of Colorado summer rain against your skin or impress upon you the icy drops that soak your hair and trickle down your face.

If I could write it, perhaps you would understand the storm-spilled tears and perchance forgive the heart that could not come back.