Down from the icy Sawtooth crags
and through the winter-laden landscape,
the cold wind eventually dips to the
creek we loved so well as children.
Continuing on, it threads through the
hollows above the creek, sculpted even
today by stooped cottonwood trees.
Twisting above granite outcroppings
and lava boulders, the wind courses
the giant arteries of this canyon,
passing among quaking aspen, river willow,
and snarled cottonwood, shorn by now
of every dryly-veined leaf.
At ancient volcanic escarpments the
wind bears south, scraping hard along
canyon walls. Upward it moves, out of
the canyon, slowing and sallying about
the hillocks, the gullies, and the poplars
until it finally comes to stir ever more
gently, warmer even, my dear friend,
around your gray marbled headstone.
Primeval of days, this very same wind
blows for eternity upon eternity, polishing
and purifying even the roughest of
the earth's elements and impediments.
This said, at this hill's crest where you rest,
there is no need of further refinement. Feel
how the northern wind quiets for you,
as if it knows over whose stone it passes.