From the east the Truchas peak still wears
its Christmas dress, woman's ageless mantle
In retreat with others younger than myself
certain names and memories don't translate
but the view when we step out through
a side door together is a universal catch
I've no camera to capture the ashen blue
No dialogue with framing or zoom
It's only me, myself and I remembering
the invisible rabbit, eight feet tall
in the leather chair here where we visualize
gestalt of a missing friend, monk or mother
quiet uncle sculptor with snow flecked hair
generous eyes squinting to see the spirits
sliding down the mountain's shawl or
a chenile sweater of green
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