Monadnock Double Tall Blonde on Blonde Latte

Beverly and I joy-rode out to Keene Saturday trying out the new Rav4. Monadnock had created its own little weather system of flurries and hid behind its mist. Looking over Dublin Pond I felt the sacred force of the mountain despite the fact I couldn’t see it. There’s a lot of hokum out there about spirits but I know the real deal when I feel it. And I always feel it there.

The Phantoms of Monadnock

Around Monadnock
Saturday the sun
dissolved in light
snow showers while its ridges
slipped away akin
to native nations
before the white
assault. That sacrilegious
triumph wasn’t one
that worried away
the spirit might
in ruin and disarray.

Some wafted in the air
as prophets warning
dwellers of their past—
it’s not quite clear
as planimetric maps
have drawn it out
to be. The boundaries
between the here
and then are thinner
than the rich and famous,
but surer than cool
mists of Nostradamus.

It ain’t Wilbur or even Kees, but one has to play the cards he’s been dealt. And I got nothing up my sleeve. My cards are on the table.