Against the mountain

The seasons do their dance.
Sometimes the wind blows,
Crisp, cool.
Smooth against my palm,
I heft the rock, and pitch it against the mountain
Remembering the way the sun inched across the sky
Remembering to be grateful that the seasons do their dance.
Sometimes the wind blows,
Crisp, cool.
For these things, my heart sings in the night.
For these, and for those with whom I have toiled and tugged
For those with whom I have grappled and loved
Across the seasons when the wind carried our voices
And we remembered to be thankful.
Let us be thankful again
That the seasons dance
And the wind carries our voices across the canyon
Where our friends listen in the night
To chirrup and ribbit,
Where our friends remember to be grateful
That the seasons turn
And the wind blows,
Crisp, cool.
Can you think of anything more sorrowful
Than to wake to a dream in which the seasons do not turn.
Let us be thankful that the wind blows
And the seasons do their dance
And friends listen to chirrup and ribbit in the night
While we skip rocks across the cool water of change,
While we pitch rocks against the mountain
And remember to sing songs,
Giving thanks
That the seasons dance and the winds still blow.

In memoriam, 6 July 1941 – 12 Oct 2014.