As I looked at the distant mountains, the ones who greet me every day when I walk out the back door, I thought of my friend, the poet Mary Kellogg who died last year. I thought of how she called the mountains that she saw from her kitchen window her “neighbors.” And for the first time, I thought I might think of the mountains that greet me every morning, the same.
My Neighbors by Mary Kellogg
Simply seeing the mountains
In their sure footed existence
Framed within my kitchen window
Gives me strength every day of my life
I ask them to never change
As I need their folded blanket of warmth
There is one stalwart tree
Standing proudly on the crest
I muse as to its origin
Is it rugged pine or mighty oak.
Roots bound into a forest or single meadow
How could I reach you
To climb among your graceful arms
Swing from the tip of your spire
Frighten the jays and crows
Into a raucous concert
Perhaps spy a porcupine
I yearn to find you
Discover your commanding view
Of brother mountains
And secret valleys.