I am meeting you
in my own lifetime
pretensions barreled
in an exculpation of

voyeuristic blame
profligate fleece of white
in pain’s grey and
cadmium yellows as

a foreground of rage
red as the earth below,
becomes a carousel of
clouds born of sunsets

sooner than the evenings
bliss of dawns promise;
I walked many a mile
in the rhythms of my life,

yet you come to me
again and again on a leaf
of aspen’s grasp singing
like the birdcalls of their kin

to homes surrounded by
life etched in the cover
of silent cloudspeak
their closeness like a

feint of thought
here, as form, as a
symbol of Who I Am,
this quiet sings to me

in the couched symmetry
of a mountain flower
soft as the rain in summer.

© K. James Ribble