A Perfect Day

When the fruit of summer’s ripeness
hangs heavy on its stem
climb high to find yourself.

Trace the rushing creek
through somber forest shaggy with lichen
to the clear brown-eyed lake below the divide.

The alpine meadows are turning russet now.
Yet the bell flowers still ring out
their lavender blue, and the sun’s warmth
pleases the plump marmot today
on his rock above the willow brake.

With each foothold higher on the earth’s back
you step out of yourself
and out of yourself again, unpacking
yourself like a set of Russian dolls
or nested Chinese boxes, until
with the last step out of yourself
everything else steps inside of you;
and you step to the place that’s firm
even when this moment powders and blows away.