Mountainsides heaped with dead stone and years,

A sweet sting of thin silent frost,

Red violent evenings and the dying sun melts all thought,

Yet your name remains, carved in the minds of all who love you.

Moor winds pouring, polish the mirror-hard country,

Over the tundra, the prairie, again and again,

Roar with magnificent, methodical destruction, yet your face

Remains, etched in the words of all who love you.

Invisible, cosmic and deadly heat,

Stars vaporizing atmospheres, exploding, collapsing,

Only the cold, the indigo clouds remain, yet your memory survives

Nestled in the songs of those who love you.

[1968]

06/24/2003

Posted on 06/25/2003
Copyright © 2024 Bruce W Niedt