poems for you

 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 

  

Of the eternal mountains.

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.