I wrote this poem the day before we spread my father’s ashes. The next day, before we gathered for that ritual, I walked the Sweetwater River and came up on a bull elk browsing on the far bank. Call the timing what you will – beauty, perhaps?

What Does It Mean to Be

A husband, a father, a brother, a friend? 
Or an antelope, an elk, a red-tailed hawk, a horny toad? 
Or a penstemon, a paintbrush, a prickly pair, a limber pine?
Or flame flickering willow, water over stone, 
wind through sage, granite against sky?

What does it mean to be, to have been, to continue 
in the quiet of bedrock, the whisper of air, 
the sweep of rivers, the lift of ash, 
in us, through us, and on?


(In Memory of Ken Stebner, 1944-2023)