poetry diary

From the silver thistle leaf
a stem
reaching into earth darkened
by geologic time
and boot-torn;
hoof-torn too, by cattle grazed
on meadows resting in the
August sun.

Pine forests – unbrushed velvet
wrapped
close around hills; doomed to fail
to keep these mountains warm
when the exiled snow returns
from that ancient, distant peak;
white
as edelweiss.

————

At Kirchberg in Tyrol. I wanted to take a poem from the beauty of the very small to that of the overwhelmingly large, and back again.