image borrowed from bing
AT NICKEL CREEK
(for Joseph Rice)
A while ago we walked
up to where you’d stayed,
old friend
we saw where you’d slept
blue-blanketed narrow bed
and the glassed wide doorway
you’d gazed through onto the mountain
the first night it rained
thunder rolled and rumbled
as you told us later,
your face a smile but serious
we had gathered my poems
hundreds on white sheets, poems
reaching back
half a century
but what you remembered most
was the fierce wind
out of the pass
and the stars over the mountain’s slopes
that, too, is a poem, you said.
Robert Burlingame
Posted over on Bobby Byrd's site
White Panties and Dead Friends
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