|
Comment on this
article
Indian Summer
by Deborah Russell
Color lingers
on the highest peak -
the sun’s muffled tones
a whisper
of yellow, leaves; dry and crisp
beneath my moccasins
The Mountain
beckons
with distant sound
a waterfall that trickles
down, and further down
the unseen path
I climb, ever higher
Concerns, like rocks
are crushed
to pebble and stone ,,,
Here I am -
nowhere
and everywhere -
Sage and lichen
at my feet -
infinity over my head
like a red hawk
its silent path is alive
and sacred in this place
This is an Indian summer
November, marked
by this unremarkable
time and space
Return to:
|