The rock portal to the trail head was closed
but Mount Shasta welcomed our grace with
piney arms that were in pine swiftly opposed
with grainy scree and an orange needled pith,
woody cones fell plenty in a season austere
where snowfall tumbled into secret ravines
and opened a deep freeze in cracks where
bursts of young pines yearned to be green.
A season long in turning matters to spring
but shortens out as one returns in default,
to stare left at whiteness and wonder if salt
will hasten the melt despite the obvious rings
when a beaver Moon has Saturn eclipsed
and one looks backward with quivering lips.