She skins in teles, through the snow
in sunny glades and shaded groves
and all that’s best of sweet and low
is in the powder that she loves;
the frozen rivers far below
the highest peaks and her above.

One day till dusk, one climb the less,
has nothing more but peace to give
which calls her farther on to press
into the darkening starlit eve,
where ice gathers in every tress
beneath mountains she cannot leave.

The years will fall upon a slope
no dream or vision can compete,
and gathered there is all her hope
and all the world beneath her feet;
leaving all that’s lost and broke
for every turn that is complete.

(If you see her let her go,
although you find her skinning there,
where the wind might hardest blow,
gathering stardust in her hair.)

Mountain Gazette, January 2010