Return
Return
Mountains so close they are
Neighbors,
Holding in the bowl of sky,
Keeping at bay the rising sun
Until late in the October
Of falling leaves
And golden larch spires.
Holding that same sun hostage,
Now leaving rose colored
In the darkening,
In the cooling of the day,
In the laying down of
Frost coating.
We return here to
This place of wood-riven
Cracked log,
Risen by hand-to set in the
Cradle of the Swan-Missions.
Centered-cloistered around
The heat of fire and
Fire heated stone.
The luxuriant sound of larch
Becoming alive again on its way
To ash.
The quiet within,
We return.
To remember what has been,
What could have been,
Suspended between that and tomorrow.
We return to listen to the songs
To listen to the dreaming.
To fill the emptiness with
Desire.
In that returning
We become sated in
That fortress, protected,
Or absolved from the world
Beyond the neighbors of mountains.
To hear that song,
To dream,
We come back.
Copyright © David Holmes | Year Posted 2020
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