The rain showers with thunder and lightning last night reminded me of this poem I wrote
a few years ago:
The fog settles in to stay,
unpacking thick, gray, wet;
settling in the nooks and crannies of the mountains.
It comes into my very skin
like an over sodden blanket.
Regardless, we must tack up.
Horses are steaming,
sluggish as a pair of wellies slogging through cavernous mud.
Eight figures, shrouded in dark brown oiled canvas,
wide brimmed hats pulled low to fend off mist,
mold cold legs to sticky wet leather saddles.
Riding through the rough, log gate,
leaving behind a safe hearth
to explore a place unknown to most.
Is this really day?
Steel gray soaking damp
sucking reds, yellows, blues from the wildflowers;
seeping into bones,
our hands are tight sculpted ice.
Fire is life.
Warming us back to feeling,
sheltering each other, body to body.
It grows tired of us during the night,
leaving an unfamiliar brightness at dawn.
Our spirits rise with the sun.
Today there is a spring in the horses’ gaits.
Wildflowers are painted like a fresh canvas,
our dusters are rolled up and tied onto drying saddles.
The numbness of yesterday seems far away.
Tonight’s fire is pleasure, fellowship, murmuring voices.
