Monday, May 24, 2010

Above Timberline

the wind carries a prayer-on the
breath of a blooming mountain willow,
the rush of a river bed, below the
beat of a hoof.

And in the creak of a saddle,
There I am.

On a crisp morning with
coffee steam rising
and the chatter of a magpie,
the crackle of campfire,

There I am.

For a memory may be no more tangible than
wrapping your arms around love
But no less real.

It is the end of the day-the sun
finally rests behind the
peaks of a mountain valley.
There I am.

Erin Jameson Gray
For Papa

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