Guardians on a hill Ever a watchful eye. Spraying branches to fill An ever-enveloping sky. What history have they seen with many a passers-by? Cruelness of the white sheen Finally releasing buds of spring. Industrious inhabitants of fur Stocking up in hidden holes. The giants still, pausing to hear The inner workings of their soul. Autumn comes...
Carving trenches from ageless grass is a lonely ordeal beneath the far gray. A careless horse will die in a ditch so digging them wide will spare us the grief. We toil in the earth in an aging machine, no less weathered by time than the skull of a steer. Under...
Mid lake, I rest the oars across the hull to watch a father in his yard pushing the son on a swing — each dependent on the others’ motion, a metronome of affection. I allow myself to drift in front of another yard — each a...
I help my father Quicken a pinewood blaze Against the falling night. The kerosine stove exhales With its hot oily breath And mingles With the woodsmoke And two days Of stale sweat. Lake water boils, Setting the pot lid chattering. Water For splintered ramen, Instant coffee, And hot chocolate From a crumpled Paper packet. Sitting on stern stones, I carefully nurse My tin cup While...
Winter Palette A silver palette Of subtle hues Softly tinted grays And Prussian blues A finely honed dawn Blush silver and peach An infinity of polished sky Mountains within reach Evening chills strike a Cold metallic horizon Purple clouds on a sea of ice Dashed with a splash of alizarin Jan Elpel is the author of five historical...
noun sleeping giant: We pass over the mountain’s back, ice licking the treads of our tires, our voices hushed. comforting companion: The mountain yawns but doesn’t shift. Its blankets of tired timber, salted greens, and browned sage wrap over its sleeping shoulders. We curl into the nook of its knees,...
In memory of Richard Roberts [1919 – 2007] The woods allow a road but only as wide as axled wheels will ride, and in the untrod center protest with tiny pines. The woods permit at noon equality of shade and light, one so black, one so white it cannot be told which is wrong which...
For Martha Scanlan Driving the backroads of Montana Gravel unspools to the horizon Fields of wheat and mountains surround me I’ve got all the good day long left to drive. My dog is asleep beside me There’s a creek up ahead that I know Where cottonwoods and trout lounge in the shadows Good...
A deep pool Water as clear as the air I see She lives there My happiness I know this Though I’ve never seen her Not physically I’ve never touched nor held her vermiculated structure So I believe Despite all my efforts to prove otherwise It’s deep and the water is moving But I see nothing So I...
What if we took a moment to pray for snow Let’s call it Salmon Weather and let’s stop Calling it a nuisance or an inconvenience Let’s pray to the snow as if it is a gift Not for recreation But of re-creation Let’s not worry the cold, here, in our warm house Let’s...