In the Middle-Days

yesterday was the last fight, I felt
its warmth glaze over the gold grasses
the sloping into deep ravine valleys
wet sashes, clinging to their auburn tresses
until fully withering, bent headed,
as if for the guillotine, they waited
& crowded meekly about the pine-needle-threaded
waiting room, the court of the summer
slowly relenting, soon to the berry of the holly.
The ancient rusty antler toothed suit
of the oldest ponderosa
one might ever encounter on accident
gnarled dancing shifting standing
on the mountain side, beside where I
wound my canyon trail up Bald Mountain;
I touched your shedding skin, your age
lifted up in coils of rocky lichen mosses,
some might say you were ill. An old King
dying there, rooted where he stood
in the tradition of slopped autumns
& its last hot Sun; still commanding our glances
all the praise of Beauty & her two lesser sisters.

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[Ed Hart]

Those times, alone, wandering the natural world, where we meld, conjoined with the rhythm of the recurring timeless and let slip the bounds of kind and degree, settle us in the eye of the storm, and there we would stay, touching everything with our hearts....