For Emily
Published in
Oct 24, 2023
Flakes of crimson heather rise
like fire from dew-wet ferns
shaded by those green clad giants,
centuries old. Behind them
snow dusts the earth’s wrinkles pleasantly.
Does my gaze enrich this splendor?
No.
These grasses will grow tomorrow.
These trees will outlive me.
The mountains will beckon me into their dirt.
This symphony would play for no one
and be undiminished by it,
as if the joy were in the playing itself.
It should not surprise me,
such effortless beauty,
knowing you.
