Writ in Snow

 

Writing names in the snow with my grandson,

we celebrate our temporality

before wind, wandering eyes, history,

which appears fleeting as mountain snow-melt

or roadside plough-sludge down in the valley.

Yet a child breathes in breaking rays of dawn

topping a hill, stunned by golden sunlight

bejeweling oak, elm, black birch, cherry trees.

When trees, laden with their blooming leaves, wave

their pennants with such excess of beauty,

they seem to whisper of red revelry

like susurration of grass by a stream.

The severity of winter gleans snow

with poignant, icicle-blue memories.

The Andes like an Elbow

     for Victor and Marylynne

Up in the Andes

gorges drop a thousand feet

and creeks drill holes in boulders.

 

Up in the Andes

mushrooms pop up to say hello

only when there´s a drenching rain.

 

Up in the Andes

the clouds fill your lungs

and the earth massages your feet.

 

Up in the Andes

you may casuallly lose your mind,

but you can do that quicker in Quito.

 

Up in the Andes

You can sleep that legendary sleep

and not be bothered by Carnaval in Cuenca.

 

Up in the Andes

if you ever get bored with work,

you can play with pale swift scorpions in your bath tub.

 

Up in the Andes

the sun  is a beneficent uncle,

but the clouds are my friends.

—Kevin T. McEneaney