High in the Rockies
Blanketed now with snow
Often unmarred even by
The tracks of animals
Is the High Lonesome.
Late in the Spring
When the snow has melted
The meadows come alive with flowers
The columbine, the indian paintbrush,
The blue lupine
The Mountain Men spoke of these places
And always with a hushed reverence
They spoke of a silence
That was deeper than deep
And a peace that smothered
All thought of greed and violence
A refuge where a person
Could just loose himself forever
And not mind
I believe that in the depths
Of every human being
There is a High Lonesome
A place of light and joy and peace
It is where we come from
And to where we will return
When our long circular journey is over.
And some are fortunate enough
To catch a glimpse of it….
And remember
December 1, 2006
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