Up Here

At Maya’s pond pondering, ducks winging, first flakes flinging, my heart singing, getting towards late October, up here it’s the verge of winter, just past Aspen gold, before the snow white cold, on a sitting log, clearing life’s fog, it’s hard to find the words to describe the feeling that comes in the wind with the first arrival of falling snow, but it’s a feeling of complete, and as the snow turns to sleet, I am aware of my body with its intimate pains, aware of my mind with its unseen strains, yet in the quiet solitude of this place nature made, for at least awhile, up here, they fade


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