Once, in (seemingly) lighthearted conversation,
you told me (you believed) there were
three kinds of people in the world,
those that worshiped oceans ...
those who levitated to mountains,
and those who only acclimated
when surrounded by both.
Placing your self in the first category,
then telling of your most cherished travels,
you spoke of a far away place where both
ocean and land claimed your spirit in the most
verdant shade of green your aging eyes had seen.
By way of your rhymes, I knew those eyes
understood the promise of passing seasons,
the honesty of trees, (confessions of falling leaves)
and the (sometimes heart-breaking) truth of tides.
Sonnets that read like scripture, cadenced guidance ...
versed visions of humility and humor endearing you to us all.
Our resident wise man, sharing personal prophecy inked with
brotherly love, and grandfatherly wisdom.
"give back to the earth what you take away,
accept then respect what can not be changed,
there is harmony in the cycles"
Recently, I stood humbled by impressive elevations,
awestruck with scenic admiration as the horizon shared
its endless expanse with both peak and tide.
Blue and green defined in panoramic revelations,
truth saturated in grandeur and majesty ...
poetry will never do the view justice.
(Just as mere words will never speak eloquently
enough to express the legacy you left.)
Might a photograph be an epitaph for things now understood ...
You are a part of all of this ... not just the tide's shoreline kiss.
Also the mountain's reaching rise, the blues and greens of earth's reprise.
Conversation or couplet, your words were chosen well ...
poetic tears wept, each a promise kept, secrets meant to tell.
So Iím gathering all the remnants of beauty
From this wilderness in spin
Same thing that's scrawled across the stars
Is written under our skin ...
New horizon, new horizons within
"I'm trying to spell what only the wind can explain"