By on Jul 30, 2017 in Poetry

Woman hiking on Creed Mountain, pointilized

Moon rides in just over the crest
of Creed Mountain and our words
tremble in a sudden wind as the pines
unlock their arms and remind of
all the lost years.
We made love here in our youth,
discarded self after self to reach
the single one each to each,
hours falling away like used up
rayons when the picture
says finished.
If there was a future to be met
we didn’t see it, not then
daylight or dark rain or
Only the pulse of the moment
holding us as a mother might
her brief children, warmth
and breath all that matters.
Now we wander here with eyes
wary, unspoken thoughts casting
ahead for what this year, any year,
might bring.
We have stored up decades of words
carved in a somewhat brittle grammar
and now as we speak their echoes
seem as distant as ancient hooves
on the far-off prairie.
Even so.
Love, I hear you say, it is a child
of time, both anchor in an unyielding sea
and the ship taking us far out
no return.


Doug Bolling's poems have appeared in Posit, Agave, Redactions, The Aurorean, REAL, Folia, and The Inflectionist Review, among others. He has received several Pushcart nominations and a Best of the Net nomination and has retired from college teaching. He lives in the greater Chicago area.