Sunday in the Glen  

            Among the trunks, two lovers keep
            me out.  Their breathing puffs against
            red, sappy bark.  When impulse swirls
            them to embrace, I glance away,

            behind, see prints descend the hill
            I've climbed.  Then like a guard,
            I march the snow line, just enough
            inside the woods to pad on needles.

            Pines play in the wind, and thrum.
            Produce an organ hum.  And clouds
            break over living pillars--dome
            of blue!  Such evergreen cold air!

            I leave because it's theirs today.
            Confused tracks mark their stopping,
            hearing music, veering into the glen.


            Bill Vernon  (Click for bio.)


      


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