For Claire

It's usually late Fall when we embrace
the cold of the dark morning,
gather the assortment of dried rose petals
we have been collecting since this time last year,
and visit your mountainside.

I knew you before I was introduced to
this ritual;
your visit.
When your sister asked me to join,
I cried.

The past two years,
you have been this untouchable,
beautiful force.
undaunted and innocent,
you are in every conversation,
every dinner, every picture,
every day, and
I cried when I realized:
now,
you are in me.

I never thought I deserved you
(still, I do not),
but you embrace me
and surround my life.

So, in late Fall,
when the sun and moon are
arguing for presence in the sky,
we visit.
I have never felt
such bitter cold and warmth
simultaneously.
It smells clean
on your mountainside and
I can't help but smile
because this is no memorial for loves lost;
it is a memorial for life.

Rose petals
piled in my mittened hand
ttake flight and dance in your whispers.
Can you taste the metallic underwater
of dried petals?
They shine like a new watch
before they swirl downstream,
pin balling against your rocks.

Your sisters are beautiful and playful
as they skip across your mossy meadow.
Mike compares us to animals:
children frolic first
for exploration, and
the watchful mother surveys
and protects.
Mike asked me to join him in the rear
as part of the male watch.
I was honored, but still wanted to play.

We are a family.
The cold
soon disappears,
but the wind picks up
the more excited you get.
We laugh, play, and sometimes cry,
but we always take a picture
so we can tell others (less fortunate)
about your mountainside.