Hi,
I'm back to blogging. I hope you missed me a little. I have three poems about my western vacation and one about a snow day here in good old PA. Hope you like them. I like the Silverton Colorado one the best.
Autumn in Nevada
The first breeze of fall
flows over the Sangre
de Christos down I-
15 to Mesquite.
Across mesas past
red rock or blonde or
gray, needle towers,
frozen lava or
eroded hillsides
fall arrives. Pumpkins
hay bales and scarecrows
and proves to me that
Pennsylvania has
no monopoly.
Visiting Arches
Glossy black raven
gives the beady eye
as, cameras handy
we set out to
capture delicate
arches, stripped red
and bleached blond
in clear evening light.
Fat nosy raven
hops to side mirror
inspects the open car.
What treats have we left?
You give chase. I take
pictures. Raven flaps
to drivers side, just
stares as you scold, then
lazy, floats away.
Silverton
I bought this ring
In Silverton,
or rather, Roger bought
it for me
both of us
captured
by the jeweler
who said, the ring was
vintage pawned Indian
jewelry
the jeweler who said
the ring was
an Indian cut, the four
stones notched in
the four directions
the jeweler who
didn’t know
we like things
with histories
we bring home stories
and this ring tells us
Silverton was
real not just some
Rocky Mountain
Brigadoon
But a real place
where all three streets
of weathered clapboard houses
nestle in the skirts
Mountains who tolerate
little towns but stare over
their heads
north to the Dakotas
South to Taos
Mountains dreaming of the end
and remembering the
beginning of the world
In Silverton that one afternoon
we chat with shop
keepers
and Canadians on tour like us
We ride back to
Durango
on the steam train
a long, cold, breathtaking,
along a galloping river,
through mountain passes
lit by aspens turned gold.
And the jeweler didn’t know
That this all comes back
When I wear that ring
And I can smell the wood smoke
In the autumn air
And hear my own feet
Shuffling along a Silverton
Side walk made of boards.
Snow Day
Out on the deck
the green plastic chairs
wear white cushions
of fresh snow
matching the deep white
carpet dumped there last night.
Squirrels and chickadees, nuthatches
and junkos haven’t graffitied the railing
and the wind is hushed.
Down in the ravine behind the house
Leggett’s Creek is quiet, most water
out back is dressed in white
The maple tree that reaches
the deck now is trimmed in
ermine just as showy its
all green summer wear or
the flamboyant yellow
it flaunts for
fall.
The forty foot white pine
hasn’t shaken its white wrapper.
All is as still as a stage set.
It’s a Robert Frost kind of day
but I don’t have a horse
or miles to go before I sleep
My work for today is
to turn from the sliding glass
door back to the kitchen table
resume the novel I’m reading
and drink another cup
of steamy black coffee.
