Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Blowin' in the wind....


We climb.
We climb higher and higher
and steeper and steeper.
There are ten of us, all seniors
meaning aging adults.
But I climbed alone.
I recall stopping to point out
a purple daisy...
"Aster?" I asked but
no-one was there to hear me.

We climb
and they climbed faster than me.
I recall approaching them all,
gathered at a natural ledge.
Looking out to the long valley
far below, I comment,
"That rapid looks so small
from here."
But they had all climbed on.

In time, as we ascended,
they were distant white ghosts
in a sea of oranges and reds
while I listened first
to my breath somewhat labored.
Then I heard my walk and now
I heard dried leaves crackle underfoot,
which brought forth the pleasant
dusty-musty scent of dried leaves.

I stopped.
High enough now, I could gaze
on entire hillsides.
Oranges, yellows, reds -- all oakbrush
after the fire --
and that view was highlighted
by stark white dead trees,
their bark long fallen off.

I wanted to string tuned wires
between the lyre forms
now revealed in the tree-trunks.
What sound would I hear then,
played by the wind?

I used to stand on another ridge,
guitar in hand
fingers in shifting chord formation
and single fingerings.

And with that strong seasonal wind
I held the guitar out there
And I let the wind
blow me the answer.



Ramón Sender Barayón said...

Hi Sara!
Congrats for yet another connective pasttime (I should talk!). Great poem, and I think of that tree next to OB's tree that had a lyre-shated double truck. I always wanted to 'Aeolian-harp' it!
Ah well, things to so-called 'do' are endless, when actually the end factor is 'do-do.' You have to multiply the word by itself.
Wot am I saying? Just finished my short piece collectioned titled 'Planetary Sojourn." Like the title?
Love -- and post MORE MORE MORE!

Steven Meglitsch said...

Blowing in the wind ...
or winding in the blow

I think you should publish more of your stuff here.

Sara Ransom said...

From a friend, by email, about this entry:
It's good to hear from you. Thanks for the poem, a bittersweet song of growing older -- the "air" up on that mountain is time itself.