Mountain Grace

George Spaeth

Nearing the summit I paused,
sucking in sweet, thin air;
worries of continuing caused
ponderings whether I dare---
Turning back seemed to be wise.


Knowing that high up the mountain
even more far-reaching views
widened the world I could see,
further I went, wondering whether
A cirque holding deep in its cup
mysteries unknown to travelers
welcomed me. Proceeding up
towards the next peak, past a rise,
suddenly I entered
quiet peacefulness.

Circled by miniature crimson
flowers was a cirque, open,
mirroring the mountains enclosing the
pristine, demanding, wild hush.
At its near edge, where columbine’s
redness enlivened the scene,
stood a lone doe, head aslant,
ready to bolt from a creature
threatening to life and to peace,
wondering, what does he want?
Looking at me she could see.

Slowly, we lost our fear,
Seeing straight into each other;
surely, we both came aware
that we had become bound together.
Gradually, like a lean dancer
dancing a slow sarabande,
gracefully, slowly, she sauntered
away, constantly looking
longingly straight into me.

Soon she was hidden below,
Lost in the tall fragrant firs.
Never will her eyes, I know,
Leave mine, nor ever mine hers.

A metaphor for an experience in Banff National Park