Rising

Cold mountain air on my skin
the sun is beating at my
left hand over the roof:  promise
of a warm day.  There is
still snow in the mountain
pockets.  I watch the birds
feed and the woodpecker
drums in the wood.  Warm
cool heaven if only I had
a quiet heart.  All my
roads and doings crowd my
mind:  the mud, the tread,
the whips, the fear.  I know
what it took to get here.
Relax:  if only I could.

Maybe the days, coming
steadfastly dusk to every
dawn will gradually
layer my stifled soul
with gentle Spring -

and the loss will
forget to dim my eyes,
the dark veil will be
drawn back and I can
rise with the sunrise,
grow in this soil, my
bones at ease in their sockets.

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