Dear Timpanogos,

For millions of years you've loomed above us,
even when we were underwater. So little you've changed
and so gradually compared to our valley, which has
been tilled and planted, plotted, gridded, built up,
wired, lit, and filled with people, cars, and twinkling lights
until your white summit must become disoriented
and wonder which way is up. Five nights a week,
I emerge from one of those little boxes surrounded
by its sentinels of light, and I almost always glance
your way, however briefly. It's just a habit. But so many times,
after I've turned back to car or phone or feet, you
make me look again. Take tonight, for example.
This morning's snow never got a foothold on the streets;
it had melted from the grass by early afternoon,
but your slopes all the way down to your foothills
stayed white, contoured with black rocks, and uncannily
illuminated by a falling sun throwing its beams around heavy
cloud cover to light you up. Though I've seen you
white with snow a thousand times, tonight was just
a little bit different. A thousand times I've looked
at you white with winter, or green with summer life,
or aflame with red, yellow, and orange leaves as
autumn creeps down your slopes toward this valley.
I've seen you bright with the full sun burning your
western face, or once, palely glowing with faint
moonlight, barely delineated from the still dark pre-dawn
east. Beneath the rising sun and the rising moon
or pinked by the sunset--never do you look quite
the same as the time before. And that's just what I need
as I shuffle from office to car, or car to office:
I need you to make me look, and then look again.

relinquishing summer

I walked out the door with July in my heart
but the radio would only play November
perfect accompaniment to the low clouds
hanging gray and drifting into a haze
leaching the color from fields, trees, and hills.

There is a richness and a sweetness
in all this melancholy. Relinquishing
summer comes peacefully, readily,
as I ease into the mellow, chilling
tones of the fast-approaching winter.

Beck, Golden Age

Breakfast

Red-and-white checkered tablecloth level with my knees,

Granola in one hand and spoon in the other.

Still-rising, the sun's too low to warm the morning breeze

Making my seven-year-old shiver as he takes another

Mouthful of colorful fruit-flavored rings.

His hair, uncombed and lit to a glow, caught my eye, 

Drew me from the kitchen table to this tiny one.

He watches the waving long-needled pines. So do I,

Sometimes turning to ask him another question

About what the coming school day brings.

Within an hour, the deck will be in shadow.

Though I'll be at work, he, at school, I know

This particular angle of sunlight, the morning's still,

Will linger, warming my heart despite the chill.

Deja Vu

This one will come back to haunt you.
On an otherwise uneventful autumn evening
You stroll inattentively to where you parked.
A lanky teenager at your heels asks if he can
Drive. Unquestioningly, you give your assent,
Handing over the keys easily, while your mind
Goes on spinning over the same concerns--
Laundry, groceries, your parents' health, a bill,
an email, a recent conversation--suddenly,
The teenager is four again, a wild spark
You spend all your time taming. That grin,
Those fingers, the eyes equal parts innocence
and mischief. It catches you by surprise, and
You remember: you dreamed this. You knew
deep in the folds of your subconscious that this,
This transformation, was coming all along. Hurry,
Open the passenger side door! Climb in
And buckle up, so that this time
You don't get left behind.

Reading into things

I'm sitting at my desk, only it's not where my desk usually is. It's out in the hallway, only the hallway is now a wide open office space full of desks, printers, plants, and other scenery. There are no cubicles, so light from the front windows fills the area generously.
Near my desk is a printer station. The printer sits on a wooden desk open at the bottom so the carpet is visible. There is smoke rising from the carpet underneath the printer. As I watch, the carpet smolders and then there are flames. The extra bright, pale yellow flames grow larger by the second until the entire printer stand is engulfed.
Not sure how to react in this situation, I announce to the room at large that there is a fire, though it seems no one else is around. I wonder if I should try to put the fire out, but with what?
Walking down the hallway, I poke my head into a separate office where some of my coworkers are working at desks. I tell them about the fire, and without a moment's hesitation, they are all up and headed for the door.
Yes, I think, this is the appropriate response to a fire in the building. Getting out. Yet, I feel I need to return to my desk to retrieve things - nothing specific, but I am reluctant to just walk out of the building and leave everything sitting on my desk to be consumed in the growing fire.

When my alarm goes off and I grudgingly swing my feet off the bed, my only thought as I reflect on the crisp images of the bright flames is, Great, a work dream.
Later in the day, as I explain the dream to a co-worker, I describe myself wandering around, not knowing what to do. I think of the email I'm waiting for inviting me to accept a new job with a new company, and all the feelings of uncertainty surrounding that kind of decision--do I want a new job? Do I want a change? Is my current employment situation such that I should leave?
Especially in the absence of an offer, I haven't been able to answer those questions, or any questions like them. In the absence of an offer, complacency has trumped ambition, and I have been eyeing the change warily and without enthusiasm. But is loyalty to the status quo borne mainly out of a reluctance to accept change akin to lingering in a burning office?

roots

In the week before you left, the wind
blew in and threw down ten trees
right out front, lifting them by their shaking limbs
and yanking them out, roots and all.

I didn't know until the next morning,
driving in to find Armando dragging one
limply behind the four-wheeler, as if by its hair,
leaving a trail of flickering green leaves in his wake.
His buddy--I don't know the new guy's name--
hunched near a fallen Douglas fir, leaning on a pick
like he'd been at it for hours already.

If I hadn't seen the tree sliding across the parking lot,
I might not have noticed anything amiss, though
the landscaping does look a tad askew now,
and the great holes of dirt would be a dead giveaway.
There are other trees, though, which seem to be carrying on
the same as ever, giving off the unmistakable vibe of
tolerable normalcy.

You were never a tree, although you've been here
as long as some of them. Stubborn as you are,
no mere wind could have budged you. Instead
you pulled yourself out, twisting and tugging
at the roots, spread and buried far and deep.
You, too, leave behind a hole,
a gap in the otherwise unchanged landscape.

garbage sonnet

they used to knock the whole can down, these winds
that tear across the unobstructed field;
but since the willful weather never ends
the can now has the building for its shield.
Some person, sick of stooping down to raise
it from its fallen posture on the grass,
has pulled it closer the wall. Most days
I scarcely notice it at all, just pass
it on my way inside. But recently
a rustling caught my ear and made me look:
the crinkling bag seemed restless to be free;
the can stood solid, though I think it shook
from strain at holding tightly to the thing
that wind enticed to break out and take wing.