She is held by the wind
and the smile from a brown eyed doe
in the arms of her father- –
                                               the mountain.

His arms of pine needle,
Spanish moss fingers
and granite grip
have embraced her through time- –
through uplift and erosion,
erthquakes, blizzards and floods.
The sixties were good years for those.

Together they have watched
storms,
the sunsets and rises
that molded the Front Range.
They know what moves mountains,
but so far
have not seen one who can.

She is- -just a mountain,
a likeness of her father,
a mass of Earth,
a watcher and a wilderness,
immovable- –
yet constantly moving.
She is a child of the Earth,
her father’s child- –
daughter of the mountain.

Dad, I love you.  I’ve missed you for nearly
thirty years now.  Happy Father’s Day.

Copyright 2010, by Suzie Ashby.

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