Mountain Matron
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Alone and weary ...
she dangled toes o'er the mountain ledge -
the late-October night was clear
and bitter cold, yet as still as death ...
rare were such even-tides
when not a breath of keen altitude
moved among the peaks.
Far below, thru brumal wisps
the tribal lights shimmered in warmth
drums of ceremony echoing
like All-Hallows heartbeats ...
a lone conch-shell horn
moaned woefully, and somewhere
a wolf answered.
The harvest moon
swam thru the bright Milky Way wash
like a silver doubloon ...
swallowing stars in its wan gullet
and transfiguring the sharp-shard ridges
to proud porcelain gods
arms stretching heavenward.
She had made this
calm-but-keen sojourn countless times
each late fall, in careful anticipation
of this very night ...
but never before had an evening
trembled so tenderly
or shone as bright and bloodless.
Life had been full ...
with loves and adventures and aches
but she longed for rest and sleep ...
the bare, lonely mountains of ancient autumn
and crisp, dead leaves hushed it to her -
the prayer of welcome ... the prayer
of poignant endings.
She smiled at the thought
of those she loved, now left behind
her heart swelling with a sad, soulful contentment.
As her people's farewell chant rose faint
sweet with the smoke from campfires, far below
she breathed, deep and dear
the magnificent night ...
And stepped softly ... off the edge.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Fall Into Fall" Poetry Contest, Chantelle Anne Cooke, Judge & Sponsor.
Copyright © Gregory Richard Barden | Year Posted 2019
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