Last year about this time I wrote a poem. (It’s the last entry in my print journal, which I suppose this blog has replaced.)
This spectacular country reminds you
matter-of-factly, persistently,
that death
is a fact of life.
If nothing else, you cannot miss
the landscape mellowing
from green to gold to gray.
The aged, tapped-out cowboy
hitch-hikes through Yellowstone
to see a friend once more
in Montana
and regrets the effort.
The pain has driven him back.
The friend drives him back.
He has to cowboy up to reality, at last
Not least there are the dried-out bones
and those still wet with sinew
that delight the dog.
The bluebird soars joyously
into the plate glass image
of endless sky
and — gone! — plummets.
Coyotes yap at night
in celebration.
We know why.
Even the mountains melt or crumble
in their time.
The iridescent night sky,
endless, deep beyond measure,
reminds you that your time is small.
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© Lois Wingerson 2015
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