Archive for the ‘Mt. Lemmon’ Category
Sneezeweed in the Wind On Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
A gust arrives
and the sneezeweed bows
all at once.
Someone might call this
wildflower behavior.
But from where I’m standing
it looks suspiciously like art—
yellow disks
sketching circles in the air
while the wind
keeps erasing the drawing.
— kenne
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Mushroom in Pine Needles — Image by kenne
Under ponderosa shade
one pale cap
holding up
a whole sky of trees.
— kenne
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Birdbill Dayflowers On Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
There is always this temptation
to keep walking,
to believe forward motion
is the same as purpose.
But the Birdbill dayflower
interrupts me—
a blue so exact it feels deliberate.
I kneel.
The mountain does not applaud.
It allows me this moment
of belonging,
as if I have earned nothing
and been given everything.
— kenne
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Bright Colors of the Season — Image by kenne
I walk through the bright colors of the season,
fire-red leaves falling like words
I once meant to say.
The mountain exhales—
a slow, last sigh.
Somewhere below,
a stream folds light into its cold hands,
and I remember what forgiveness feels like.
— kenne
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Snow on Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
A traveler who pauses to admire the beauty of woods filling with snow,
but is reminded by his horse and his own sense of duty that he must
continue his journey because he has “promises to keep”
and “miles to go before I sleep.
— from Stopping by the Woods On a Snowy Evening, by Robert Frost
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Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
Go alone, if you would see clearly.
Crowds borrow courage from noise.
The solitary man,
standing before a vast horizon,
measures himself without deception.
There, humility is not taught—
it is required,
as gravity requires weight.
— kenne
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Aspen Trail Autumn Colors on Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
Events drift in the lattice of time,
stitched by light’s patient hand.
Shift the coordinates,
and yesterday’s truth dissolves—
what was simultaneous
now follows itself in echo.
What you see in nature
depends on where you’re standing.
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An Orange-Capped Mushroom on Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
Under a quilt of needles,
it presses upward—
a small insistence
against the coming white silence.
— kenne
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Aspen Trail on Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
A trail of yellow leaves
threads the aspens—
a quiet path of sunlight
laid gently on the forest floor.
— kenne
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Photo-artistry by kenne
The Photographer
He lifts the camera
as if confessing—
the lens a small mercy
between himself and beauty.
Each click
is a way of saying I see you,
and also I can’t bear to lose you.
In the mountains,
he photographs what he loves,
and what he knows
will never belong to him.
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Mt. Lemmon Autumn — Image by kenne
Golden Stillness
High on Mt. Lemmon,
the leaves burn gold—
not in dying,
but in remembering their light.
Below, the San Pedro Valley
breathes in silence,
a vast mirror
where the sun learns to meditate.
I feel the boundary dissolve—
between mountain and man,
between seeing and being seen.
The wind passes through me,
whispering:
nothing ends,
it only changes color.
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Image by kenne
Fenceline, Mt. Lemmon
Yellow leans into the wind,
a soft surrender of summer.
Along the fence,
the season loosens its grip—
beauty, brief
and already leaving.
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A Fall Scene On Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
Leaves, wet and breathing,
circle the small green mind of moss.
From the cliff’s lip,
a drop gathers,
falls—
not a fall at all,
but gravity’s remembering.
— kenne
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Aspen Trail On Mt. Lemmon — Image by kenne
Yellow is the hush before the wind,
the trembling song of what must change.
On the Aspen Trail,
each leaf a coin of sunlight spent wisely—
then let go.
— kenne
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Photo-artistry by kenne
Mt. Lemmon’s fall colors become artificial near the fenceline
By the time you reach the fenceline,
where the last maples lean against the fence
and the ground tilts toward Tucson,
the color has gone plastic—
a red too red, a yellow borrowed
from a gas station sign.
The trees remember what’s expected of them,
how the tourists need their postcard.
A kid poses for her mother’s phone,
and the mountain obliges,
spilling out one last bit of October
for the algorithm.
You stand by the fence—
the smell of sap and exhaust mingling
and think of the men who built
the road you drove up on.
Their sweat staining the stone still,
their laughter lost somewhere
between true color and paint.
The wind tries to speak again,
but no one listens.
The leaves keep shining
in their counterfeit glory,
each one a small rebellion
already fading.
— kenne
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