Misty Mountain Memories

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

spring water.

It was clean enough to drink

back then.

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.

They do,

and I think we both open under the caress.

These are the mornings that I think of you,

wishing you could visit upon me

so easily.

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

dew point.

© 2007-2011/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Sacred Reciprocity: Courting the Beloved in Everyday Life"