The first of March
And the night is dark and restless—
The sky, a mix of cloud and stars—
The earth still bound in snow,
But air, grown temperate—
The sun shone warm—
And Winter is failing.

Five miles west of town--
The end of the farms—
The start of the dessert—
The marge of the salt marsh—
Mesquite and salt grass--
Sulfur scented mineral springs—
Life on the edge—

And they return again,
As they have for half-a-century;
Father figures, more liberal,
The family in abeyance,
And buddies who spoke
(And even lived) forbidden thought—
A Truth beyond propriety—

And I a part of them—
Not quite alone (sometimes lonely),
But included, often valued,
In all of my distinct--
Or inherent peculiarity--
A gleaming, youthful facet
Of talent or indifference.

And we roamed wide,
Restless in the dark March cold,
Sensing that powerful mystery
Of the Unfamiliar—
Yet, foreign shore easily visible
From the front yard,
Ditch-side sycamore.

And now--mystery lost
To knowledge;
Darkness to growth; the foreign
Transformed to wider homeliness;
And Memory: the lasting link
To youth’s distinctive gleam--
And buddy love.

03/01/2013

Author's Note: Little Mountain

Posted on 03/03/2013
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