Walk the rails under a high blue sky. Find the sag in the leaning fence, and step--carefully--over rusted wire. Follow a peninsula of blond grasses through a lake of loam, and come, at last, to the timber's edge where gray branches trace the sky and rose hips curl near purple canes.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
Recalling
Oh, take me back,
back to the quiet road all gold
with leaves overhead and underfoot
and feathered, one by one, through air--
we had nowhere to go but together
as the everlasting problem solved
with the brush of our hands.
Such a beautiful poem. I used to call the gold of the Aspen in the Rockies "alchemy". In Massachussets, it's the Beech. There is a dirt road, 5 miles long, where no cars travel, where I taught my girls to drive. My wife and I hike it and on Columbus day weekend it is Gold like you describe. I don't know if the initial Oh is a painful expression of loss, or a precious moment, or both. I have memories from over 50 years ago of a brush which will always be precious, although there was loss involved. In any case, a beautiful poem, one which touches my life in several ways.
Such a beautiful poem. I used to call the gold of the Aspen in the Rockies "alchemy". In Massachussets, it's the Beech. There is a dirt road, 5 miles long, where no cars travel, where I taught my girls to drive. My wife and I hike it and on Columbus day weekend it is Gold like you describe. I don't know if the initial Oh is a painful expression of loss, or a precious moment, or both. I have memories from over 50 years ago of a brush which will always be precious, although there was loss involved. In any case, a beautiful poem, one which touches my life in several ways.
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