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Full moon on my shoulder, morning couldn’t get much colder, on my way to the sky, to be with me, past stream fountains glowing, from mountains flowing, leaving behind the why, going to where I can sit and walk, let nature talk, and I just listen, only questions are, will there be Wallflowers in bloom, will there be moose and Marsh Marigold, will I feel old?

Sitting in the woods, away from the material goods, feeding on nature’s diet of quiet, early in June, flowers blooming, bees zooming, birds sing, squirrels chatter, but those sounds do not shatter, they are part of the quiet, they do not clatter with insistence, I welcome them without resistance, there is a gracefulness in the forms of the leaves and flowers, a gentility, in the petals a fragility, and yet resilient, persistent and somehow it reminds me… of me, and in that thought I find comfort.

A tree stands apart, as do I, in a mountain bog, in a mountain fog, it is the first day of June, the mountains still singing a snowy tune, I hear the sounds of water flow beneath the snow, in it flows hope of renewal, of survival, of revival, it will quench a dry land’s thirst, from it life will burst, it’s nutrients will feed a new generation of seed, and though today I carry a sadness of knowing too many carry a never ending sorrow, standing here alone, leaning my back against an eroding stone, I dare to hope that in time, life can fertilize a better tomorrow

Last falling snow sifting down through Aspen gray, soon to be leafed out and green, last powdery winter scene, frozen flake after frozen flake falling into an already melted lake, I sit, watching, choosing to stay awhile, and smile, last falling snow it’s hard to let you go, I sit in fading light watching you fall out of a gray sky and though I know I have to, I don’t want to say goodbye 

Sitting in a mountain breeze, feeling at ease, amidst the buzzing of a few bees, in May, a pleasant day, new green leaves, the sound of the gentle wind in the trees, my stress it relieves, makes it easier to breathe deeply, though the trail winds steeply, the trees stand so still, they help me let go of my will, to take time just to be mellow, sitting by an Oregon grape’s yellow 

I go up to a mountain in the morning, the sunrise to greet, the sky to meet, at first there is snow on the ground and then seemingly out of nowhere, unexpectedly, there are flakes in the air, Easter flakes, and instantly I am away, into the sway, into the swirl, into the whirl, and I come to a spot where snow is falling straight down and as I cling to an Aspen, I look all around, and in that moment I find a reason to be breathin, life is not a test, it is Easter flakes for breakfast.

There’s fresh snow on the aspen and the evergreen, it is a genuine winter scene, light snow falling pretty, richly, steadily, no artificial sounds, no shrill, the silence of winter, in the high mountains, even in April, when down low it is the time of daffodil. I stop, breathe, and let out healing sighs, I close my eyes, think back through all the days and nights, the darks and lights, through all the years, think of all the joys and all the tears, all the way back to 1955, it is enough just to be alive. 

When I see the Aspen gold, I know, it won’t be long til the snow. And there’s something there, as I breathe, it’s in the air, yet deeper, some inner keeper, more than the beauty I am seeing, it’s my very being, it’s a moment without time, filled with life’s rhyme, a reassuring calm, a balm, a feeling I can touch, that promises so much, an ending and a beginning.

When I sit alone in a mountain forest, on the ground, back against a tree, or lie back in a grassy prairie, I feel free, all is still, yet it feels like all is in motion somehow, yesterday, today and tomorrow all seem to come together at the same time. Surrounded by the life in the trees, in the grass and in the soil, it’s easy to forget about life’s toil. I wonder how to hold on to this time, to not let it just slip away, I try to imprint it in my mind so when I lie down that night to sleep, there’s something there to find.

This is nice, switchgrass in the rising sun, coyotes howling in the distance, I’m sitting with insistence, forcing myself to stop, to slow down, look around, in the morning glow, in crunchy snow, sitting on a boulder, aware everyday I’m getting older, thinking about the past and how it feels so fast, and so I cling to the present moment, with conscious intent