West Virginia Mountains

A tectonic birth,
these mountains rising,
Their growth labor intensive
and not without a little dirt
(trees don’t really grow from rock).

Even the Himalayas
expand at an abominable rate,
Something like six centimeters
each year.  No wonder Yeti
gets unsettled.

I have never been to Nepal,
These mountains that stand sentinel
in my world grow slowly,
There is no Olympus Mons here,
not even an Everest.

We have no super aspirations,
Some days it’s hard to breathe at all,
but these are proud mountains;
they stand tall,
ever reaching for heaven.

Seasoning


Dawn slips in slow notes
over the misted mountains,

Pied leaves
dance to their own rhythms;
photosynthesis is done for this year.

The leaves compete with pumpkins
for that perfect shade of orange
while white tail deer wear their russet coats
with pride.

Fresh faced morning
makes a lazy start. In this seasoning
Spring’s song has long been sung.
Now every dew drop holds a rainbow
and a mirror.

Know What You Write

 He wrote Forgetfulness
and I know he knew what he wrote;
that gray mist that sneaks in sometimes,
the names that escape, the dreams
near forgotten.  He is intimate with them.

I walk the mica sparked rim of mountains
so tall I think I can touch the clouds,
like wraiths they fade when I reach for them
and the gray mist sneaks in. I have not
forgotten the feel of stone or the taste

of thin air but, still, I am chasing the wind,
knowing I can’t catch it and if I could, knowing
I wouldn’t know what to do with it,
It would be like holding the sea in a tea cup
and mourning its small horizon.

I will write of what can’t be touched,
for I am intimate with it, No matter how deep
into forgetfulness I sink, I shall never forget
the time I reached for the sun and came so close
 it almost burned my hand.