Eliana, at seven

Gratitude graces the clouds this morning.
There's a breeze, there is gray and white,
the leaves are singing a song of relief from
yesterday's heat.  Families float lazily down the
Blackfoot, the river a cool fluidity,
a gift we can't believe
we waited this long to experience.
On the top of a mountain a little girl breaks open
a butterfly pinata, the Beargrass billows,belts
her party song, white and holy.
I sit on the chairlift and point out Indian Paintbrush and
Lupine -- she can't believe how high we are, how we've
become part of the mountains,
more than mountains.
A fist on lollipops,
we circle up,
celebrate the space,
the quiet,
the seasons and years that continue to fall
before us like a new melody,
another song
that is even better than the one before.