Scrambling back down Mount Abraham
giddy with Champlain Valley wonders,
my heart slows enough
to hear tree boughs breathing
in the rise
and fall of wind, the whoosh of red and
yellow leaves swaying and whispering
ghostlike in my ear: free, free, free.
Stilled, present
in this moment, the charging back and
forth in time my bull-like mind
slowed by nature’s Picador,
enough to let the past die—for now
at least—
the could’ve, should’ve, would’ve
hazards strewn across memory’s trail
like mossy boulders threatening to trip
my tired feet and bring me to my knees,
Or worse—
Toss me over the precipice.
The sun winks through thinning
branches and trembling cold; I lift my
face to inhale its forgiving rays. For now
At least—
no longer prisoner of the treacherous
path behind and before me—
I am blessed and reborn, and
stepchild to Wordsworth’s Nature.