In the mornings we always welcomed the day looking at your Poteau Mountain.
And far away the mists crawling over its topmost trees towards the base –
the sun rays up through the field, a race.
A visual prompt of creation’s way, and you would say – it’s going to be is a pretty day.
Our conversation would turn a phrase while we drank our coffee
and up the hill, the blue-green tinted tree line spilled into oak and rock about halfway down.
In summer, with the evergreen on display – it always was a pretty day.
In autumn when the leaves turned red, we made a trek – the road ahead was rocky, steep,
We climbed the hills and look out on the valley’s thrills below. A cloud passed through the brush and stayed. It blocked our view but didn’t ruin that pretty day.
A frost would settle winter mornings on the upper trees under a cloudless awning clear and blue. And as we sat behind a framed glass view, the window shared your mountain too.
With winter’s frigid accolades, you never ceased to smile and say – it sure is a pretty day.
Springtime storms would hang and cling, the thunder from your mountain sings a song of praise and grace. The distant rumbling warned of storms, but you were never made forlorn or worn or gray. Even this was such a pretty day.
Those mornings when you weighed your heart, did you ask God for each fresh start?
The mountain only in your view – a post -but sky and land beyond that too.
And all this scene of wondrous awe, the trees, the sky, the rocks and all
in your witness, don’t dismay –He said –
for here Patricia is your pretty day.