On Ragged Mountain


There’s a luxury –
a pleasure
really, it’s that more

not like the joy
of an avocado
(not to dismiss that joy,
sliding along the skin,
opening the ripe fruit
to eager hands,

fingers sliding into flesh
to scoop
and taste
and slip along the tongue)

No, not that
but the ecstasy
of the familiar,
the wind rustling the trees
and that caress…

The fecund scent
of spring about to break,
the earth beginning to swell,
already pierced
again and again,
preparing to burst…

And this moment
in the trees,
amongst the trails
in stillness
on Ragged Mountain,
the only track my snow shoe treads behind me,
the slope above me
waiting to be explored,
if never known.

And the birds, the wind, the land
waiting to sing
as they birth
in this strange spring in winter.



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