the mountain pines

 

an autumn breeze did come to me,

on a smoky september day,

that time of year , the wistful time,

when the aging  first appears,

she had wandered in from her highland home,

and laced throughout  her flowing  skirts

the scent of the far and distant mountain pines,

the tall pines, the rugged pines, the manly pines,

that find their breath in the lofty air,

the clear and skyward air upon which the eagles soar

in majestic, rising spirals,

round and round,

higher, higher,

as if striving to perch upon that silver cross

atop some unseen cosmic cathedral spire,

it was this virgin air, this Eden air

which God had stirred with playful, holy purpose,

to cause to sweep down the  granite peaks,

across the  veils of cloud kissed snow,

and there to dance in whirling swirls

among the thick and savory stands of pines,

the mountain pines,

that hermitage of lonely monks

who stand and say their ancient prayers

in robes of elk and buffalo.

for they know that this

is where earth and sky, do come to mingle

there that heaven wind gathers in her flowing, golden hair,

the fragrant essence of  a wild and higher call,

and brings  that call to lower earth,

to cause the souls of more earthbound men,

to yearn for something more.

 

 

The End

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