Geological time: New Year’s Eve

Sometimes the clouds hang low
muffling conversation between the rocks and sky.
It’s as if the mountains aren’t there,
as if we’re in some country or other
where the hills keep mumbling past,
the promise of mountains
never delivered.

They’re there though. They’re always
there and they’re not sleeping.
And that’s not grumbling
you hear. Under the wet blanket
they’re giggling. They’re planning
their next party. What colour
to wear. How much glitter to sprinkle
into their uncombed hair.

When the boyfriend came to visit all those years ago
they snickered at my disappointment. Waited
until he was gone to jump out from behind
the clouds and yell, surprise!
I laced up my dancing shoes and got right to it.

Last night those same mountains
dressed up in their tight white shirts
and packed themselves into the hall. Someone’s kids
played horns and belted out old soul standards –
          Try a little tenderness
          In the midnight hour
          Chain of fools –
while we flung ourselves around, moonlight
sprinkled in our hair. For old timers,
we still dance pretty good.