These days fall smells of beginnings, the autumn of renewal, and late days slow like the turning north, spending all day in the earth, all day with majestic trees, the white pine in our front yard, aspens we planted twelve years ago to remember Colorado, the real origin of poems, high country, trails to forgotten lakes that shimmer with dots of sun, and there was a time I looked at fall records, school work, the brief success of poems, and to study poems, to write poems. I am back at my Youth, the Coastal Range in California, there I never stayed for long, my first seven warm winters. Now come to South Dakota for sixteen years, east River. These days fall smells of beginnings, the autumn of renewal, and late days slow like the turning north, spending all day in the earth, all day with majestic trees, the white pine in our front yard, aspens we planted twelve years ago to remember Colorado, the real origin of poems, high country, trails to forgotten lakes that shimmer with dots of sun, and there was a time I looked at fall records, school work, the brief success of poems, and to study poems, to write poems. I am back at my Youth, the Coastal Range in California, there I never stayed for long, my first seven warm winters. Now come to South Dakota for sixteen years, east River.
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