Mountain Meditation

by Gail Peck

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Picture by Thomas Berg

December 30, 2011

This morning some bird sending 

me a message through the still dark 

while the full moon casts its shadow. 

First traffic on the main road 

out to where the goat stays in 

when it rains, and I look for the donkey 

who lies down with the cows. 

The season is about to change, 

and the leaves we always bring Mom 

to see, though no longer for her 

in full-color, those once brilliant blue eyes. 

When we last sat outside I asked 

if she saw the fireflies. Yes, she said, 

when they light up. 

I thought time could be contained, 

like those insects I captured as a child 

long before there was a replica 

for everything, the real pinned down. 

A large stained glass dragonfly 

in a shop, some net-like covering 

to imagine lift and flutter. 

I’m the goat, Capricorn, clinging 

to earth and do not desire 

my ashes to sink in water, though the miniature 

boat my friend built for the seaman 

was beautiful aflame, the sail tilting. 

I think often of death—Mom 

with her damaged lung, how a butterfly 

closes one wing over the other. 

Take the day and all the little quotes 

on how to live it. At the window, a plastic flower 

reacting to solar power so there’s always 

movement unless fog moves in here 

which it frequently does.