They lived in the snowy mountains, where God lives. They chopped wood, carried their own water. They slept in the loft of a ‘30’s A-frame cabin, next to a frost-rimed glass wall sparkled with moon and star light. In the chilly mornings they built a fire and drank coffee made on a barrel stove. They read books, they spoke, they prayed, and moved easy through the mountain pines and winter days.
One day, exploring an old shed, he found a worn bed frame. Old weathered brass, glowing dully with the patina of a long history.
The snow was two feet deep, the clearing open to the sky, curtained by tall pines.
That night they went for a walk. Passing through the curtain she saw the bed, the feathered pillows and comforters, the quilt, and all the world floating on a celestial ocean of moon and star-sparkled light in champagne powder.
POEM FOR ALL HEARTS
I recall the starry mountain night
hovering in peaked cathedral panes above our altar-bed.
Beyond the ethereal shimmering curtain of darkened glass
our attendant pines,
rooted in the calm of ages,
iron black against the moonlit sky,
softly sung the swoon, the beckon
of all hearts ever, ever-weaving.
In a shadowed field of ice and snow
amid the blessing pines I found a place,
firm and level and calm and timeless,
to lay our quilts, our love, our heart…
And we were rhythm and we were ribbon,
we were winding incense, twining
through snow pine heaven,
through all hearts ever who have ever sung
enfolded forever in one another
entwined and tangled and tumbling lovers
stoking the fires of the eternal stars