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Returning: High Place on Lake

Nearly twenty summers here. Seven in our house
we built. We two imagined the “here” as if
heaven. As if we ourselves planed these pine

logs. You drew it, facing the water at nearly
9,000 feet. I collected carefully each furnishing
for two years in Houston, scavenged like a rat.

We built dams over any flood of disappointment,
like the beavers do who gnaw here. I envisioned
each of six rooms, what would go where:  color,

texture, and theme. That January you ascended
to frozen paradise to prod builders. Two icy weeks
below zero you worked at their sides with hammer

and fur gloves. In May we moved in. I thought
I had never seen such glory, such an image become
life. It was everything we'd labored for. More. Now...

I find nothing much external excites me. Not even
the entire Rocky Range, with its few ice peaks this July.
June's killing fires didn't touch me. (So what if it burns?)

Time with its happen stances has seared us too - like forest
crisps - with its refining blaze. Are outer views now
irrelevant? As your humorous dead brother once laughed,

“Bodies' parts begin to fall off. They're not under
warranty.” At seventy, like these huge Osprey
here, we dive deep to feed. We have mostly soul left.

- Like That

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