Image: (c) Jamie K. Reaser
On winter mornings
in the mountains
the mists roll in,
enfolding the wings of dawn.
On some mornings the mists arrive
like a ghostly patchwork quilt seeking still
to cover bodies of the
homesteaders who once worked
these now-Nature-reclaimed, inclined
fields and who piled rock fireplaces
and rock walls and fern-rimmed,
rock-lined wells from which they
sipped cold, thirst quenching
It was clean enough to drink
On other mornings, such as this one,
the mists arrive like wispy, outstretched
fingers yearning to touch me and
the land on which I live.
and I think we both open under the caress.
These are the mornings that I think of you,
wishing you could visit upon me
Sometimes, I wonder if you have…
And I ponder whether memories
aren’t but mists that travel our
inner landscape when the
sacred elements combine at
© 2007-2011/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Sacred Reciprocity: Courting the Beloved in Everyday Life"