In a sweet grass valley I lay supine,

Teasing me subtly the scent of lupine,

Stroking gently that memory in my mind,

Of the Cascade mountains left behind,

 

She loves me, loves me not, the snowy peak,

The one of which dusty poets speak,

Beneath her stony face a pen grows meek,

Next to her strength the ink seems weak,

 

Oh to capture the violence of an avalanche,

Watching the immutable suddenly advance,

How the lines of prose would shudder and dance,

On stark white pages of passing chance,

 

If I could paint the words of winter’s eve,

When the sun sets fire to autumn leaves,

And in unbroken silence a heart believes,

In God and perfection, in simple reprieve,

 

‘But such a beauty cannot be possessed,

Cameras and notebooks cannot express,

The glory cold altitude stone will profess,

To hearts that seek comfort in duress,

 

Only the eyes of one seeking the divine,

Will uncover the riches in sweet sunshine,

Gracing the curves, hungrily dine,

On a small town meal, with a scent of pine.