Climbing. Climbing. I can hardly breathe mountain air anymore. Too many years at sea level. My feckless lungs have forgotten where they came from. I lean against a mature aspen, listen to the bull elks bugle. My seesawing spirometer searches for breath balance, a cruising altitude. After an hour I find the right pace, complete the journey from valley floor to our alpine lake. Only for you would I cross three states of water. I gather kindling, build a fire. When the time’s right I let go, toss your love letters into the flames, watch their ashes rise and mingle with the snow dust. The final item’s hardest to part with. It blazes blue. The slick paper, no doubt—your invitation to wed somebody else.
frost line
where I fit in
where I don’t
poems have appeared or are forthcoming in B O D Y, Contemporary Haibun Online, Failed Haiku: A Journal of English Senryu, Haibun Today, hedgerow, Modern Poetry Review, Prune Juice: Journal of Senryu & Kyoka, Red Paint Hill, Stoneboat, Terrain.org, and Whiskey Island.
