What is this place

where we measure time

by the death of monarchs,

the fugue of fireflies, by

August’s gloss of goldenrod?

I seek to keep the time

in the rings of trees.

The meadow here is young

the forest younger still

and those shrouds of unshorn fog

float along each day.

By summer’s end we’ll too be gone.

The creek has been calling

for centuries.

So let’s chase the rainclouds

off these unschooled hills.

And let’s unscroll the stars

upon the vaulted sky.

Let’s saunter through the meadow

And find our own two

faces in the stream.

Our reflections shimmer kindly

but only for a breath

before shattering,

fallen stone.

Wilson Taylor MA’19 left the mountain in 2019 and has been nostalgic ever since.