My Princeton Patch readers know that I restore soul and muse by driving to nature sites, especially in New Jersey and occasionally in nearby states.
You also know that my poetry muse vanished for a couple of years, coming back 'on the heels of' the hip replacement a year ago, November.
To celebrate recovery, I took myself to the Berkshires the last weekend in October. Little did I know what Fate had in store, even in that region.
The Williamstown motel, The Cozy Corner, lowered their rates when it was discovered I could not return to Princeton. Downed trees en route and powerlessness here had turned me into an unwitting refugee.
I managed to hike any number of times, even the day of Hurrican Sandy in Willliamstown. Oddly enough, we were spared. I was welcomed and tended everywhere, though a stranger. I relished art in favorite museums. I woke and slept to mountains.
Now, I find myself bereft without my refuge:
home from the Berkshires, I long
for sustaining peaks and ranges
--slate against lemon sky
waves of chartreuse grasses
surging in pre-storm light
three proprietary crows
rowing like blue herons
in almost-hurricane turbulence
landing on conifers
that barely swayed, despite gales
I require those mountains
day after day birthing clouds
scurrying to new pastures
those cradling mountains
where I had meant to remain
but a handful of days