I catch the very edge of time
here in reticulation of an instance
catching the dew with knowing

there’s so much more to come
on reflection as minuets seep
into the belief that I was so much

younger than before, as if thought
gathered in the tonal life of sound,
an illumination like photogravure,

an imprint of our own orenda lingering
on the soul’s restless occasion drenched
in morning gold, where the sun’s blanket

of light, like a guest of these hills, surrounds
our love so complete, so infinitely calm
that I have fallen into the chasm of this

place fully embraced, into the natural flight
of a mountain breeze on the note of its songs,
like the endless motion of Summer’s tallest grass.


© K. James Ribble

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