The Golden Passage

The last run of the day,

a pleasant glow of fatigue building,

descending from the high elevation sunshine,

my dance with the mountain winding down.

Then, rounding a hillock, I emerge

into a final open slope

and am stunned, gaping

at the beauty of the scene.

The clouds whose light grey tufted tops

I skirted as I skied above

now meet me in a shroud of glowing bronze.

Cast afire by the sun behind me,

incandescent filaments of mist

weave around white-tipped evergreen branches,

suffusing and embracing me with the trees

and the shadow-marked rumpled snow.

The moment will not bear my silence.

I shout aloud in happy awe, in reverence

for the sudden perfection of what I see,

for the synchronized rush of limbs and skis

as I turn and carve my way through this golden passage

consuming in seconds the vista that lay before me.

And yet—past trudging footsteps,

grey and sullen miles homeward,

details quickly faded and heartbeat steadied—

the smile lingers, and awe remains.

—First posted on Facebook, 1/25/11

Autumn Work

A cool Autumn sun slants through the trees, my evergreens

their smells of sap and life still rising in the air around me.

The kids are at school and the woods left quiet,

embracing me in a solitude for once not lonely or empty

but peaceful and still, bidding silent welcome.

I break the silence with the sound and sweat of work:

honest, loud, joyous labor

of chainsaw and tractor, arms and back.

Cutting dead trees free from their silent sentry stands.

Watching, hearing, feeling each dusky thump as they fall.

Then bending over each to notch five times,

for later cutting into fire logs, then splitting, then stacking.

Then cutting the five-length logs to length, and notching the next,

The roaring saw and I dancing a duo in the brush,

two old work companions working together,

notch after notch, log after log.

I heave the seven foot logs onto the waiting loader forks,

their long-dead wood clunking with a nice dry ring

that promises hot fires and warm nights

through the oncoming winter,

which peeks at me through the slanted light and cooling air,

and in the stillness of absent children's voices,

but can wait a little while yet

while I seize and enjoy

this and now.

—September 2, 2010; reposted on
Facebook, August 2012