There are days when I wish I was smarter.  I’m typically reminded that I’m having one of those days by self-inflicted pain. Ahhhh, but to be able to laugh it off with no permanent damage is a blessing.  The poem below provides a brief view into my latest attempt to do myself serious harm on a boy scout backpacking trip. Enjoy!

5:55 A.M. No more contention, the alarm clock and I. Besides, now I hear the wind chimes on the back porch. This breezy sunrise is what I’ve been looking forward to since Tuesday.

I lace my boots, grab an apple and wake up the dog. He’s not used to me heading out this early. As we drive up the hill, his whimpered anticipation builds to animated quivers. He recognizes the bluffs where we hike.

We take the trail on the west side of the bluff out of reach of the rising sun. In motion, on the switch backs, I’m not cold, really. The dog’s excitement rushes him ahead. Off leash, he remembers to slow when he no longer hears my steps, backtracking to appear around trail corners, urging me to pick up the pace.

The scent of stables from the bluff’s base rises to meet us as we head back to the car. The dead cottonwood, the last of its kind, stands a forgotten sentinel among the pinons. It is good to have the trails of the bluff free of ice again. My mind is also aware of spring’s first touch, relaxing, stretching, forgiving.

just before April,
creative longings sprout
with the new grass

I’m the type of writer that tends to plot meticulously, to the point of never writing anything. Planning is fun. You can’t fail. Writing on the other hand is scary. Writing is the part where your plan falls apart and you feel foolish.

I feel that for my essays to make it from brain to keyboard I’ve got to just write. I’ve been doing some very rough writing in my paper journals, but this isn’t really moving my writing projects forward. So, I’ve decided to start recording bits of essays here and there. Hopefully, each of these bits (to be posted as a blog entry here) will make some sense by themselves. After a number of them are posted here, I’ll see if it makes sense to go back and combine some of them into a more formal essay. If so, yeah! If, not Yeah! I will still have written something and started the process of working with my ideas. That’s the exciting part.

As a bit of a preview, I’ll divulge that I’ve been thinking about the seasons the past few months as I’ve watched summer merge with autumn and then transition to winter. As I’ve watched this change I’ve been increasingly aware of my own change of seasons, from full of enthusiasm to returning despair. My hopes and excitement now seem unreachable, again. How does this personal winter relate to the weather outside? More importantly, why do panic when personal winter comes to me. I don’t panic when snow and ice come. I cope. I need to learn from this. Expect my first essay bits to be themed accordingly.

Bundled, I fuss at the need to pull off a glove to fish my keys. Even the new battery in my old sedan complains. I listen at first, unsure and then more optimistically as lights sprinkle the dash and the engine groans. My car’s tires and the snow-packed street together make a sound half Styrofoam, half crunch. Temperatures have been below freezing, day and night, for more than a week now.

The snow on the street is brown from days of dirty tires. The yards on either side are still white, decorated only with prints from stray snow boots, pointed at the elementary school two blocks away.

Frost collects inside on the windshield, with every breath.  So cold. The warmth of the engine is slow in coming.

pink light
on the mountain,
frozen morning