Thin Jacket, Thin Colors

To watch for
autumn colors in Tucson
is something like
looking for bananas
in the Yukon.
You might find some
but you probably
won't believe it.

I read, however, something in the paper
about the colors up on Mt. Lemmon,
a mountain 9,000 feet high, wearing a ski run
almost like a necklace, almost in our backyard.

I do not want to shovel snow, ever again,
but who can deny the glory of autumn colors.
"I am off!", I cried to Mari, who knew better
than to chase ghosts of Christmases past,
and I drove up as far as the road can go.

It is not necessary for friends who spend
their weekends sharpening their snow shovels
to send scornful notes. There is a beauty
in being warm, too, kinder than real icicles

hanging from the gutters.

The campgrounds along the way
are closed for the season,
and the hikers at 8,000 feet
had stripped to their undershirts,
pioneers of the season,
looking hardy, convincing each other
that the 60 degree weather
was stimulating, and healthy,
probably insuring a long life.

It was tempting to count the cars
on the drive, but higher altitude math
intimidates me, so I contented myself
with noting how few cyclists
were tempted by bearable temperatures. They are tough!

Someday, when I have even less to do,
I am going to take pictures
of the stone faces I imagined

from the side of the mountain.
Until then, I am going to imagine
how thick a jacket has to be
in order to make autumn colors
possible.

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