IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS

Covered by the mute sun's
high afternoon dust
hiking in a deft weary range
with a poet's October shiver
remembering the cool air
riddled with orange kites
on a high space
at a first frosty arctic wind
hearing tangled voices
on a branch of sparrows
singing a fine tune
entangled in small eternities
on a fresh airy peak
handing a red apple
to a thoughtful friend
and a wounded doctor
embedded in the last war
known for his debates
in sixth grade English class
now on his once soccer knees
by lifted up songbirds
and a cicada chorus
almost covered by leaves
a lone robin wanders near us
with a tangled wounded wing
from an explosive truck wheel
saying a childhood prayer
we all begin to heal.