Somewhat unfocused. But isn’t the first snow always…
coming soon…
Our home. Darby, Idaho:
These days. These quick moments of lucidity. Feet to carry. Eyes open. It almost seems I’ve abandoned this post. I have not. Just taking a look about, feeling bright but melancholy. It’s a lovely moment when a mountain seems just yours. It isn’t, of course. But how we pound days into lifetimes, the weathers of am and pm storming round the clock. I’m privileged to be in the Tetons. In Idaho. Wyoming. The rock just soars, and she can sometimes take you up.
The view west from Mt. Meek in the Jedediah Smith Wilderness:
Is Chicago. Is not Chicago.
Teton Pass, WY:
Spring storms
give then take away
views of
the mountains.
The peaks seen
then absent,
like children in church
or the weakest
among us
entering hospitals
one last time.
Teton creek
babbles on the overrun.
It’s the drunk
you never tire of hearing.
Early geese land
then quickly take flight.
The ground still a shadow,
many shades
of what isn’t yet here.
James Salter:
“The poets, writers, the sages and voices of their time, they are a chorus, the anthem they share is the same: the great and small are joined, the beautiful lives, the other dies, and all is foolish except honor, love, and what little is known by the heart.”
Me:
And this, this truth resounds as a type often undeclared, if even known. Where is strength of this caliber today? Can it be seen, if so, recognized, named, recorded? Somehow the great society is losing her touch, the complete love with which she began headed for myriad exits. It is not enough to lament, believing as we do in pure ironies. Somehow some things must continue. Who will voice, with elegance and reason, our plight, our fear of losing what may already be lost?
A type of Spring…