Logan Canyon (Fall 1968)
In a gray light
under morose clouds, a churlish wind spins through a naked stand of aspens,
herding a cold rain before it.
I can remember better days:
You waltzing through sunshine
like the golden leaves of fall.
But I was always one for running,
too young for marriage. . . though ripe for war.
My heart weeps tears
like the slate cold rain
in this canyon of my youth.
But, look! Over that far ridge
the sun will creep, and steam will
start to rise from the gray-green bark.
Some leaves still dangle,
faded yellow and twisting in the wind.
One breaks, and I watch it spiral in time,
a glittering, gold snowflake catching the light.
Yes, I remember you,
and though you may have sought me there,
my name is not etched in black granite.