Thirty at ten thousand feet

I feel richer in spirit

But painfully aware of my burlap solitude

Woven into this time of death and hardship

My doctor solemnly informed me of my body’s betrayal

Now I venture West in search of a sanitarium

And in the distance, the Rockies

Reminders of a Mighty Hand that once crumpled the earth like paper

Pangea at loggerheads

Each peak a mise en place of Deep Time. . .

If I make it to next year, I will make it to ninety.

But a month and a cruel winter tower over me still,

Dwarfing the brief sting I felt over a woman

With whom I missed my chance many years ago.

She smiles one last time

And fades into the blurry wash of the past,

Crystallizing in amber.