A Vision

A square room,
a grumpy woman,
and a man whose words
are gruff and thick, do not translate
through a wire's delicacy ... 
but the gist is decipherable:
he's not here.

Miles and miles of mountains 
lie between us, 
and autumn leaves 
out of bloom, falling,
splash the brittle air with crimson.

The town breathes ...
in the cold, white plumes rise 
above depleted trees; the loch's glass,
the stillness and the silence is
broken only by a mallard's cry,
a grin from warm brown eyes,
the swing of chestnut hair,
a silver ring.

A far living painting
still at the core of autumn's hills,
our mountain tipped with snow,
and stillness breathing slow
at the heart of autumn's yellow.

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