MORNING
AT HIGH CAMP
Ski
in early. Cold, mid-20s and fog.
Solo
day. Left notebook on floor
by
the butterscotch chair. Ski
through
a scattering of men
heading
for Hogback, back country.
Last
night’s dream surfacing.
Visiting
my friend in his mountain home,
New
to him and his wife. I’ve forgotten
a
housewarming gift. Sitting with coffee,
remembering
the dream with apple,
sea
salt caramels. I’ll save Maggie’s
home-made
pork tamales for later.
Window
table, varnished pine, High Camp.
The
Mountain in clouds. Bly’s New Moon
title
page opposite blank page I write on,
his
Chinese poems preparing me
for his stunningly gorgeous
Collected
Poems waiting beside my chair.
Waiting
for my readiness.
My
grandkids grow into another life
off
skis, not with me this morning.
New
boots in molded stiff plastic,
heat-fitted
to my foot, working out.
Still
empty tables on second floor.
I
gambled on this, a Saturday,
settling
on Bly’s poems from mid-70s,
Old
Man Rubbing his Eyes. Sound
of
ski boots on ground floor,
recalling
horses in mid-west barns.
Bly’s
ears hearing tinier, animal
things.
The man across from me
drinks
an amber glass of beer
from
plastic cup. I bring my own mug
leaving
it in camp kitchen. I’ve brought
chocolates
for lift operators. A friend
of
my daughters, mid-40s, comes over,
sits
down, tells me about a podcast.
I
offer him a chocolate. He's listened
to
men in their 80s and 90s talking
about
their most vibrant moments,
he
asks me about mine. Swimming
in
a Wyoming creek at 48, I felt
like
I was above tree line, entering
my
50s. Big stuff, still. But felt,
and
still feel, underage in my 70s.
The
Solo hike on the Wonderland Trail,
sat
me down, made me understand some things.
I
ask him, my young friend,
what
he thinks about sound systems
blasting
music from speakers by chair lifts.
Do
you consider this might be sound pollution
violating contract with the Forest Service?
I
show my friend the title of Bly’s poems.
He
asks me, Are you rubbing your eyes?
Jim
Bodeen
5-6
January 2019
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