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.