Mt. Time

Mt. Time

Dear Wife,

Classes are out. There’s time.
Half our kids are coasting Mexico,
the other half hauled out in Boston.
You’re in Tucson, meeting. So.
Now is better time than any to paint
you Hood, how trillium unfurls and ice
lets go the whiskey sound of jays
sanding the noisy woods. You remember.
Body to the sun, the chill goes off
the skin. Turning back, it’s mountain
cold again. We both remember.

A worm of climbers inches up,
roped the final feet against the white
and disappears, circled by an albatross
I think, but see it is a plane,
even smaller from below.

That high we’d want to ski the clouds,
jump the Rockies and sail the jetstream.
At thirty thousand feet the listening
tubes are blue, the wine is very good,
the Mozart even better. You know that.

But now I see the wind has changed.

Tomorrow, if you’re back, in the maple
falling air  and easy drift of stars,
like chameleons, we’ll change our fires
for other sails and bend the wind
another way.

I’ll get celestial bends from this imagining.

Your husband.

-T.C.Buell

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