Seeing and Hearing

I miss the ancient
dark red rock cut by
loss and time. The top of a
water rinsed cliff where
moss green drips descend, surely
controlled by beauty
and a slipping sun.

In the still cold valley,
the river water smoothed
faces are torn by
current and the great curve
of land.

I will close my rusty winter eyes
and hear the sound of waves tossing
liquid bodies against the shore
in a long casual sound promising
the loose bounty of
middle summer days.

Someday soon, I tell myself
I will stand on earth, solid ground,
hear woods calling slow,
and see a green tangled mountainside,
as I climb again, one knee to
one knee.