The night is a broad canvas
And the mountains emerge along the edges
In serrated silhouettes.

A black ribbon highway lies ahead
Splitting the snow-brushed open spaces that
Glow faintly white
Under a yellow moon.

And here, I will forget

All that rests behind.

I will give up these thoughts of
Not being enough
And let
The great painter brush
My soul into the very center
Of this wild
And forest-laden place.

I will rush along the snow-touched pavement
To the darkened bodies
Of the hills

And a love that
I can feel
In the atoms of the air.

It is born of wilderness
And winds
That tumble from the high rocks
And bend the grasses only to rise
And begin again.

It is born of narrow roads
At higher elevations
And hidden, rushing streams in places
Where I walked along the banks
And held your hand.

It is born of my children’s laughter in the
Orange-red sunrise of the morning

And it is born of forgiveness;

Forgiveness for what is forming on the canvas of a life
I have washed clean

And it is born of finally allowing myself the grace to see

The beauty of it.