the golden season
near obed summit
septemper 30, 1994

this is a dream rising
nothing I know of reality prepares
for these golden dancing aspens
tucked in veins above tight pines
crouched under rolling grey
stretched along ascending granite

I have been touching a lonely woman
who comes in a fog, awkwardly knocks at the door
stretches herself thinly above me
loves madly for all the days beyond
But i am not able to give everything
cannot create enough breeze to lean me
am tired of living this dead zone
Even here in the mountains it comes
I wonder if I was free to
what I would do

She gets in her car, pulls sunglasses on
drives the morning to the main highway
a cup of black coffee wedged between her legs

I move away from the peaks
but this camouflage of cloud prolongs leaving
is a posthumous blessing on the immediate past
I drive the sliver between land and sky
and cannot tell when i have left them
as if these beloved mountains,
this time,
did not want to let me go

© Thomas Trofimuk

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