Pike’s Peak, October
The summer was perfection—painted skies,
clouds gathering by four, dark scrolls of rain;
then bursting red that took us by surprise,
projecting sunset to the eastern plain.
And friends from South Dakota, Illinois,
Wyoming, Texas, England came like birds
and perched. We sat al fresco to enjoy
the view, good wine, blue cheese, delight in words.
It’s now October, and the famous peak
by three is pink with horizontal rays
revealing every texture, form, and streak,
a spotlit masterpiece of shorter days.
Though aspen shine still on the Rampart Range,
light snowfall higher up can give me pause,
while colder nights assault the ash, and change
wind-scattered leaves to weak, arthritic claws.
It’s not just nature, since my autumn’s here
already, mellow, though—a ripe caress;
love rediscovered late becomes us, dear,
refining finish of our lives’ finesse.
The mountain’s body takes on shadow, blue
and secretive, as by a lover’s art.
How wild the clouds that crown the peak, how true!
How wide and full the spaces of the heart!
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