Muddy Waters
I do not tire of the bluffs,
with their grand faces.
I pass from one to the next,
straining to see into the depths
between them shrouded
in a canopy that was bare branches
just weeks before. I came here
knowing the differences
would show. The same is true
for the similarities. Would
the summers be longer?
The winters colder? It’s not
the weather so much
as the familiarity. I’m getting
there, but I still miss the blue water
and the maples. I miss the maples.
Today is Day 12 of National/Global Poetry Writing Month.
This may be off-prompt, but I’m sharing it at napowrimo.net.
Image: of course, any time I see a maple while hiking in Missouri…
rivrvlogr 
Spring.
.
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A reluctant mistress in these parts. Freezing again, tonight.
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Nostalgia for certain places seeps into our souls …
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A lifetime of memories.
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Trees are family.
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Yes.
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What Jazz said. . .
there is nostalgia, but not sorrow or regret–more of just remembering and missing.
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Yes, thank you, Merril. Regret has a way of coloring one’s perception of the present, robbing it of its true value.
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This poem has a rather far reaching theme at the moment, Ken.
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So true. There are many things out of reach, right now. Thank you, Robbie
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Trees are such an anchoring force. (K)
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Even when bare, they’re presence is evidence that there is room for life, however brief.
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