crossings

Crossings…

                        poems

Desolation Wilderness, south, in September,

following the fall of the foot to the trail

each time deeper 

into the sky.

**

Was it the broken flow of dream-light,

the rustle of splintered words

or morning’s pools of gentle press

that suggests a different shore ?

**

Rising late in the east, moon

lights the tops of the trees,

then downward the trunk

lengths, to finally 

the ground.

Nothing missed.

**

Skirting the northern edge of Lower Echo Lake,

moving west above Upper Echo and to the shores

of Tamarack, setting camp to its east among trees,

clear blue sky turning dark and chilled—first stars,

east and south aside the fulling moon, resonant

—the pulse of surrounding stones.

**

A not altogether unreasonable goal

might well be to reach more for what 

discomfort may have to offer.

**

Down from Suzie Lake 

into the east, canyon walls 

glow copper, aspen leaves 

quiver gold.

**

Climbed Mt. Talac today, up from Gilmore Lake, 

ascending 1,400 ft to 9,700, at 74 years, 11 months 

and 3 weeks of age; but who’s counting?

**

Lake Aloha holds place below north facing slopes of the Crystal Range. 

The jagged peaks that reach almost 10,000 feet are those just missed 

by churning glacial scrape that sheared clean to the bottom, 

to flattened fissured networks of semi-submerged stone islands 

amidst clear blue, snow and spring-fed waters stretching  

most of two miles today: the pushed front-end of centuries 

that readily escapes all efforts of the paltry scratch of a pen.

**

Headlamp off, journal closed,

tent illumined in moon glow.

**

The primary devotion

in the high country is to breath.

This unquestioned touch-stone 

of well-being is never taken for granted

here—songs are sung to it.

**

Lake Lucille nestles in a small bowl

of scraped boulders, perched at the edge 

of a deep gorge that widens into valleyed landscapes 

and surrounding peaks. Abundant spruce, lodgepole pine 

and ponderosa, coloring scrub and golden aspen, soften 

this rock bound plateau to murmurs of retreat. 

Moving from point to point, one outcrop or dome to another, 

we can trace most of the last four days’ trek. Here we rest 

and reflect, here day lets silence have its way, lets the rocks 

take us in and birds slowly begin to show.

**

High-mountain communion:

sips of shared brandy 

on a boulder overlooking 

lake filled valleys.

Liturgies of the senses.

**

To wake 

during  

a rest-

less night

to see 

Orion

is to know 

all is 

all right.

**

Portola Redwoods State Park

The seventy-fifth year begins 

with a full bladder, a zipped sleeping bag 

and chilled, shadowy air held in place in part

by towering pillars of unquestioning presence,

ancient celebrants of here, now.

The bag’s zipper speaks to open, then the tent’s,

softened earth receives the pee, upturned eyes 

catch the play of the branch-crossed moon

and the head bows.

**

The deeper tangles of younger fears,

the longing for answers, for lasting form,

let go, open the free-step breath-work

of crossing the unmarked snow

of old age.

**

The “tradition-of-being-alive”

trumps by virtue of its commonness.

Our part, to bring to bear the currencies 

of talk, coming to see better

where we are and how.

**

Through the window, the moon,

fulsome above the ridge line,

juxtaposed with two ceiling lights

reflected on the inside glass,

all three appearing round, all 

borrowed light given back.

**

—Our times

Especially in small town america,

passing by others so close sleeves touch 

suggests at least the lifting of eyes,

wouldn’t you think?