Saturday, September 29, 2018
September––poem by Dorothy
September
Again, the aspens are turning
the world into God,
right on schedule.
We try to savor
these few precious days
by driving up into
the high country,
look for yellow gold clinging
to dark branches,
irradiated by sun,
follow Trail Ridge Road
all the way up to the Continental Divide
where it is always windy
and cold.
Up there the tundra grows,
northern Siberia is
the only other place on the planet
where you will also find it.
Sometimes at dusk the elk come down
into the meadows,
their flute music echoing
cliff to cliff,
then clashing their horns together
to find a mate.
Soon everything
will be covered
in snow, down here
and up above.
We will wish
we could still
go skiing
or snow boarding,
but it is too cold
for our fragile bones.
We will all long
for mothers
who will bake bread
and make soup,
fill the house with
sweet aromas.
Instead we will check to see if
we have new mail,
warm up a frozen dish from the market,
listen to the news
to see
if anything has changed.
Dorothy Walters
September 29, 2018
