Close the Door

I close the door on summer from an exterior room

Spiralled rock ascending like a celtic rune

Scooped stone marks the heart of this hill

Former mountain

Ground down by the rolling glacial might of thousands

Thousands

Thousands

Tons of ice

At the cusp of the equinox

Leaves already swirl their way to litter the ground

I close the door on summer

Feeling how thin the afternoon’s warmth has become

Sitting at the top of what’s left of this hill

Former mountain

Absorbing the depth of this rock that plunges

Deep within the crust

Anchoring itself against the shifting of the plates

Fissures, quakes and lava flows

Tsunami waves thundering down the straits

I close the door on summer

Thinking that we made it through another season

Tomorrow I’ll climb back up

To open up the next door

 

 

David Trudel  © 2012