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Cottonwood leaf, fallen, lying in the stream as if waiting, still summer, though September, the season of seeded sage, broomweed and asters, and I am waiting too, not waiting for anything in particular, just paused, later sunflowers shine in the setting sun, and for some reason they bring to my mind the idea of hope as the day is ending, but the trouble I have with hope, is that it is needed at all

Sitting on a high mountain boulder, still getting used to getting older, up here, even in August, the wind carries a chill, the view provides a thrill, sitting in a high mountain wilderness wildflower meadow, moose under the trees, flowers with bumble bees, oh my, what a show, you know, I don’t want to go, from up here, the sun warms my face, I feel so much a part of this place, it’s in me, used to be, I ran through these wilds freely, now I step carefully, today, sitting here in this beauty and peace I look around and can’t find my yesterday, can’t see my tomorrow, but feels like if I look far enough I can see all the way to my end, to a time when there is no more time to borrow, until then, I will, when I can, walk in the high mountain wild air, wishing I could just stay up there.

And so it is July, the sun, of course, is high in the sky, yesterday, to end June, to help me stay in tune, I walked on a path through a grassy foothills meadow full of wildflowers in bloom, it was cloudy then, and thunder sounded with a boom, and I do not know why but my mind turns to a childhood memory of hearing whippoorwills in the night, and seeing fireflies flickering bright, a delight, and I feel the passing of time, of life, like this path, it stretches backward, but I can move only forward, and in that there is a sadness, yet, also a gladness, to have lived life itself, dreams not kept on a shelf

There is a silence in the air, it greets my stare, it’s in the fog, it’s in the mist, it’s in the flowers, it’s in the hours, it’s here where I sit alone, on a mountain stone, it’s in every breath,  it’s in every tree, in everything I feel and see, there is a quiet in the color of a harebell, in colombine and lupine, and in the silence I find solace, until a  sound intrudes on the silent, rolling thunder, though it is distant

I sit in my wild forest chair, I just sit and stare, around me wildflowers bloom, before me a hummingbird hovers then leaves with a zoom, the water in a stream passes by, on its way to a far distant sea, and though I just sit, not moving from my seat, I realize, in the stream of time, I too am passing by

As I recline, in a cloud shadow, feeling a bit of melancholy, next to a prairie lupine, I seek, if it may to me in some way, speak, I reach out and touch the petals, feel the soft, sunshine comes out from behind the puffy clouds aloft, I touch the  leaves so green on which round drops of water sit now with shiny sheen, I hear meadowlarks sing and prairie dogs chatter, but from the lupine I hear nothing, yet sitting here I have found a little piece of peace of mind,  so it doesn’t matter

At first through raindrops fat and wet, I go looking for something this Spring I have not seen yet, walking to a place where I know I can find the flowers called Pasque, even though a nagging knee pain has me in doubt I should try, I have decided this is my afternoon’s task, and then the rain stops, it’s now just me, low clouds and the footpath. I tread carefully with conscious purpose to a bend in the trail where I know it is safe to assume I will find the Pasque in bloom. As I arrive the sun does too, lighting both the perfect petals and my life as the sky turns blue and now with a renewed sense of hope I recline on a flower-filled slope and feel an old familiar sense of ease as I breathe in deep a pine-scented breeze 

Yesterday I was in the snow, turning up Left-hand Canyon, flying flakes in the air, snowing in Jamestown, falling like a shimmering shroud on Ceran St Vrain trail, lodging in Lodgepoles, now today I’m wondering where did it go? I’m standing in the sun by a yellow daffodil, in the middle of a Colorado April, once again pondering how time never does stand still. Soon all the creeks will be rising, all that falling snow will be flowing, and the wildflowers will be growing. I have heard it said that as we grow old we grow more wise. But I’m wondering if that is really the case or if it’s really that we just grow more tired? 

I lie on my back on the ground, in the morning chill, feeling under me soft soil, soft grass, at the base of a hill, enjoying the silent thrill, where the prairie meets the pine, where the land rises and doesn’t stop til it reaches a mountain’s spine, above me I see a blue sky, I see a magpie fly, I lie by a lone scraggly pine,  the low sun is behind, and when I sit up my shadow and the tree’s nearly intertwine,  I am a human, alone, in a wild, then I lie back down, my head now on a pillow of stone and I doze for a bit wondering what this place was like before, before humans arrived through nature’s door