Something about loss
found me deep
inside these woods
and the shadows,
under the cold white summit
that breaks bread
only with the wind.
I took her ashes to the top last summer,
but this is not
about my grandmother –
not even about my father not yet
laid to rest – it is about the way
this life moves through us. It is
the once familiar path
It is these skis
that push through newly fallen
snow and the tracks of deer.
It is what remains.
It is breaking
trail high on a Rocky Mountain mesa
because the signposts
have been buried
and maybe this is exactly
what we were born to do.
imperfect bowl a fallen home
spun with mud just right for the three
small blue eggs who left their indentations
in the place where a mother loved,
where now only a memory remains in
remnants of feathers, reclaimed strands of blond hair
are tied with sticks, they could have been any of ours,
so sweet that somehow we are a part of the miracle that
life started here – flies free now in a perfect sky.