Member Poem

I wake to a fragment of a memory
of Misty Mary, my friend - such sweetness,
and such power in it. She has firmness
without harshness - bends like the proverbial
reed in the wind but admits she also breaks.
She accepts her fragility, clothing it
in femininity, lace and velvet.

I see her as the rounded mountain,
buffeted by shrieking winds,
slapped by sneering rain and thumps of thunder
in a harsh bass darkness.
Yet afterwards there is a fine tracery still,
A crochet of pale, tiny, exquisite alpine flowers
and finger curls of fronded baby fern,
surviving, like the mountain hare
reaching up for a bright berry
beside the ruffled ribbon of a slender stream.

I see the kind smile, the mountain-black hair,
feel the strength of her support.
There's a sweet wistfulness, then a rustle -
the glide of her long light gown
the same faintest pink as the healing sunrise
that softens the peak;
then she melts into the morning mist
where frothed spirit arms beckon,
leaving a vista of pure clear air
and heady delicacy.