Alpenglow

 

Bearpaw High Sierra Camp

—Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

EVENING IN THE HIGH SIERRAS

In alpenglow, between far howls of wolves
and coyote, silence echoes time’s beginning
steeped here in fragrance born of centuries.
A harvest moon ascends through evergreens,
silhouetted needle-clusters spot-lit
under snow-peaked mountains, lavender-blue.

If city-trapped, we might be TV-viewing
The Last Days of Pompeii; Tornado Hunters;
London Murders: Jack the Ripper Nights;
Winslow Homer Seascapes, some waves so raw
and wild, we wouldn’t ever dare such seas,
much less be painted in a lurching boat….

But here, relaxed on a rustic cabin deck
under Muir’s compelling Range of Light,
we inhale forest cinnamon, vanilla,
watch moonlight silvering limbs of sugar pines
under peaks where glaciers never melt.
Nodding, sleepy, we feel our fingers tingle,

our moon-drawn bodies slowly letting go.

 

 

 

 

 

ODE TO MOUNTAIN PEAKS

Peaks know how to rise—
they can stretch taller suddenly
and not make a sound.

They reach far higher
than imagination’s birthplace,
stir deeper than roots at midnight.

In summer, cracks widen
into smiles. In fall, a few boulders
may tumble away, like afterthoughts,

Snow enshrines Sierra’s vows
almost forever. Then snow-stars
melt into brooks, falls, rivers.

In full moonlight
we climbers see Half Dome quiver
ever so slightly.

 

 

 

Crater Lake, Oregon

 

JOHN’S CAMPFIRE
at Crater Lake, OR    

After twenty-five years
of camping, repairs, art projects,
John and I arrive at Crater Lake.
Setting up our tent, we inhale
evergreen freshness.

Early evening. John splits a log
into fire-ready chunks. I add
crumpled newspapers, kindling
and two pine cones, one for each.
Then John flares a match.
Kindling ablaze, cones snap

as flames nibble into barbed petals,
and crackling sparks swirl safely
up and over the forest canopy. . .
The fire burning low, we gaze sleepily
at rubies nestled among embers.

 

 

 

Gray Wolf #493 (OR-93)

 

HONORING GRAY WOLF #493
on Northern California media, 12-02-21

This wolf made history,
traced as he walked, trotted,
& limped from Oregon, down
& over into Sierra foothills,
veering over to Hwy. 99 for miles,
then down the California coast.
Along the way, he fed, found water.

In full moonlight,
maybe sharp instincts kept him
in forest shadows, else his lit gray fur
label him a ghost that rabid
humans would want to destroy….

Back in early America,
wolves once numbered
in the low millions—
California a favored habitat….
As likely imprinted on his DNA,
wolf #493 was drawn to near LA—
there hit & killed on a freeway.

Wolf, I envision a life-size statue
of you, high on a pedestal
in a California plaza,
a handsome bronze plaque
honoring your existence.

 

 

 

 

TOUCHINGS

I journey through your landscape,
touching here a tree there a wildflower.
I hold your earth in my hands,
trace the markings on your leaves,
hear storms gathering,
rain falling,

I climb your mountain,
touching ferns of your spirit,
moss of your gentleness.
The trail leads to glaciers
of your sorrow,
meadows of your serenity.

Rocks reveal
your suffering,
strata on strata,
your triumph in lofty redwoods
cloud crowned in glory.
I bless your life, as I journey

through your landscape.

 

 

 

Yosemite’s Mist Trail

 

TRY US, ROCK

Try us, rock,
dwarf us
to sand size,
yet we will rise
as on wings of wind,
to conquer ifs
of
incomparable cliffs—
to prove that  
with
granite desire,
mankind
can
   climb
      higher.

(written on the Mist Trail)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

GROWTH RINGS
—Claire J. Baker

Through every
delightful or harsh
life experience,
may trees
of our spirit

add another
growth ring until
we touch the sky
like Sequoias
leaned on by ferns.

______________________

A big thank-you to Claire Baker today for her poems, including “Evening in the High Sierras”, which is in Blank Verse. Speaking of forms, Claire is also a frequent contributor to our Form Fiddlers’ Friday; be sure to check out her poetry there upon occasion.

______________________

 

—Medusa

 

 

 

...moss of your gentleness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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