Monday, June 17, 2024

Who Is Joseph Elijo? The Last Of The American Poets

                                                                                                      About 10,100 words

To: Katarina Maria Duncan 

For: The Self Realization Fellowship World Convocation 2024 July 14-20.

Lord Jesus Christ

Lord Krishna

Mahavatar Babaji

Lahiri Mahasaya

Swami Sri Yukteswar Giri

Gurudev Paramahansa Yogananda

All Saints of All Religions




For: Lifting the Veil of Maya and Bringing Peace, Joy, Serenity and Enlightenment to Those that are Suffering.

The Healing Writer's Of Write My Fire With Love, Compassion and Fellowship.

May I succeed in climbing the Sacred Mountain of Self Realization and stand at last face to face with Thee, Oh Inconceivable Spirit Divine! (Gurudev)


                                     The Last Of The American Poets

                                                      Joseph Elijo


      It was morning, early frigid morning. The smoke rose slowly and drifted across the frozen waters of Nottingham Lake in Avon, Colorado. It formed small whiffs of cirrus clouds as it curled lazily among the rows of tepees and pine pole lodges erected for the Mountain Man Festival and the World Alpine Ski Championships. Vail Mountain bent the bright shafts of sunlight, at sunrise, as they rose from far below its back bowls. They came together like the patterns of a kaleidoscope touching, moving away and touching again. They were sent scattering and streaming into the steely blueness of the dawn sky. Tom Dillon, tugged down on his Stetson, turned away from the beige metal building of the Avon Stohl Port. His attention was drawn by the roaring of propane burners, two large hot air balloons began rising. A black, white, and red Mickey Mouse followed by a yellow, white and blue Donald Duck. The music crackled crisp and clear from an ominous column of black speakers. Each note, resonating from the sound check, split the twenty-five below air at eight thousand feet in elevation.

Early one morning, the sun was shining

I was laying in bed

Wondering if she'd changed it all

If her hair was still red.

Tom banged his thick ski gloves together to the beat of A Dylan Tune, Tangled Up In Blue.

     The rushing waters of the Eagle River flowed freely during the cold front that had descended out of Alaska across the Cascades of the Pacific Northwest, and into the White River National Forest. It had followed directly on the cusp of the freak winter storm that had deposited enough powder to cripple and close the men’s downhill competition.

     Tom watched as the darkened hills along Wildridge to the west began to lighten. The high country snow sparkled like a shining sea of grandmother’s eyes. The northernmost peak was a virgin thread looping the purple hills. The southern ridge, the ski mountain of Beaver Creek, was a thin slot before a narrow rocky valley. The ski trails a wizard’s snowy fingers clawing at the weather-checked rock, and reaching down into the evergreens.

     The Eagle River churned and grated against the icy shores as it disappeared beneath the bridge named ‘Bob.’ A dark rough wood and glass sentry post stood at the entrance to the resort. The road was lined with a bronze peasant woman carrying water pots and three young bronze stallions. The water flowed from the snowfields of Chicago Ridge, above Ski Cooper and Camp Hale, in the San Isabel National Forest, the training grounds of the men from the Tenth Mountain Armor Division, the first American Ski Troops. It cascaded down along the gorges and arroyos of the range. It gathered momentum pouring off the rock faces by the town of Redcliff and bobbed along past the shanty-turned new age town of Minturn. It turned sharply and wandered into the Vail Valley and mixed with Gore Creek. It traveled past Beaver Creek, the town of Avon and the New York Range at Eagle before mixing and flowing into the Colorado River Basin.

     “Caw! Caw! Caw!” a black and white magpie startled Tom. He spun quickly to face Vail Mountain. Tom was thinking of a quote and Professor Sara Lacey and what he had come away with after a poetry workshop. “There is intelligence only when there is no fear, when you are willing to rebel, to go against the whole social structure in order to find out who God is, or to discover the truth of anything.”

     “He yaw, he yaw!” he yelled, scaring away the scavengers.

     “Hee haw, hee haw!” the little grey and white paint burro, mimicked.

     “Easy Hercules, Whoa Snowy,” he said to the screaming white Appaloosa gelding with one brown spot on his nose. He pulled on the lead rope of Beau the buckskin stallion and adjusted the panniers of the burro, his companion. Lifting the flap, Tom took out a pair of white figure skates. A present for Sara, being a dancer, she would like figure skating on the Lake. He slipped them back in and closed the flap. He was looking forward to tomorrow and performing at the Beaver Creek Children’s Theatre for Former President Gerald and Betty Ford and his guest Professor Sara Lacey.

      Tom stood upright in the bright and warming morning sunlight.

                                                        *   *   *

     The Silver and grey Continental Express Stohl plane sat on the tarmac of the Denver International Airport. Sara Lacey smoothed the wrinkles in her blue shirt that the seat belt of her flight from New York had left. She set down her green and blue backpack, and bent down and tied the laces of her hiking shoes. They felt awkward on her feet. Breaking them in was proving more uncomfortable then she would have liked. She silently watched as the Jumbo Jet dwarfed the smaller one and disappeared down along the white tented topped terminal building and turned in a cloud of black smoke and then seemingly vanished, into the heat shimmer of the distant runway. Sara was tangled up in blue.

     “What do you mean?” she had inquired of the ticket agent.

     “The tickets are refundable if the plane cannot fly.”

     “Why couldn’t the plane fly?”

     “It has nothing to do with the plane. You’ll be flying from an elevation of 5,280 ft. into and over mountains in excess of 14,000 ft. in elevation. Since we have no control over the weather we offer refunds if the planes can’t fly, into the weather.” the agent had said.

     “Oh!” was her only reply.

     She picked up and swung the heavy pack on to her shoulders over her Parka. She walked up the stairs, stopped and took a deep breath, flipped her long red hair back and made her way to a vacant seat. The plane began moving slowly along the runway. The drone of the turbo propellers increased with the speed, until it became a steady throb, the plane staged at the end of the runway. The engines increased to a high-pitched whine, and the plane moved quickly down the runway. It rose rapidly, and banked steeply to the left. It climbed above the rows of houses and swimming pools. It turned and climbed high over Interstate 70 and into the foothills of the Rocky Mountains.

     Sara rested her head against the window and glanced out at the snow-capped horizon. She didn’t understand the draw of this empty whiteness for Tom. He was the quiet type and an odd beat, but she liked things that were different. Out of the desire for a change of scenery, she had agreed to be present for his reading at Beaver Creek.

     How many readings? The Mother and Daughter, the Political Readings, and the lugging of the books, the headaches and backaches, her car accident had upended her world, the world of books and poetry. She had made fun of his poems wrapped in a red ribbon.

     “Write about something of substance,” she had chastised, but was secretly pleased. One had said, “I see a sunrise in your eyes across an American Nation at twelve thousand five hundred feet in elevation.”  They shared their days in her poetry book lined study, writing and talking about his favorite mountains and out of bounds ski runs and her immense love for the ocean. She wore her soft white Hiawatha dress, finally having someone to share her love of writing with. He sat crossed legged in his blue slacks and white shirt as she had read to him from a book of poems written by an Italian Poet of the Thirteenth Century and they had discussed how relevant the truths and words were in his skiing and mountaineering life. Discovering their mutual love of horses and Sara explaining to Tom of her time writing about Ruffian, and the awful demise of the famed horse. They had laughed over Rolling Stone commenting that she looked a lot like Bob Dylan’s first wife, Sara, also. They were celebrating her publishing poems in the magazine after receiving the Jack Kerouac Award, for Kiss The Skin Off, her latest book of Poetry. Tom, along with his friends, had been invited to her house, on Appletree Lane, for the taping of her Documentary, Not Made Of Glass. It had been an important event in her life. Shortly after, he had betrayed her trust. Angered, she had severed their working relationship.

     His first attempt to contact her had come shortly afterwards from Awenda, South Carolina. He had stayed along the Intracoastal waterway on a large plantation. The full moon rising out of the shimmering waters through the hanging Spanish moss, and the couples dancing cheek to cheek at the Piccolo Spoleto Arts Festival, in Charleston, had driven him to write to her.

     The second attempt from Vail, Colorado, he had been skiing the expansion of the back bowls in a sea of fresh powder snow. The exhilaration and the grandeur of the views had dwarfed him in loneliness to his pen. 

     How very little we know about life! He had called her after spending several day’s climbing The Grand Traverse and North Traverse Peak in the Gore Range at the head of the Valley in Vail, where he had bivouacked to watch the full moon set and the sunrise across the valley at 13,000 feet in elevation, the smoke, large billowing plumes, from the fires of Yellowstone National Park were clearly visible. The smoke had made its way to the Vail Valley several days later. She had not answered. She just collected the tapes from her never machine in a box in her garage, Sara was a hypnotist collector and she questioned his motives, and his sincerity. What would she say to him? What would he say to her?

     The plane banked sharply to the right as it passed over the Eisenhower Tunnel, the Continental Divide and Loveland Pass. She was curious and falling in love with the land. The large reservoir of Lake Dillon and the highest yacht club marina in North America became visible against the backdrop of Buffalo Mountain. The great expanse of Summit County and the Valley of the Blue opened to her view. Looking down upon Arapahoe Basin, the highest lift serviced mountain in North America, along route six, just below the Divide, she was beginning to understand what drew him to these mountains. It was exceptionally beautiful. He had read a quote to her from one of his favorite authors. “Wild places do not exist to be convenient, or entertaining, or safe, or useful, or even what we choose to call beautiful. They do not exist to be admired or visited or photographed. They are there for themselves alone, and that is enough.” It was from Diane Sylvain, a contributor to Writer’s on the Range, and she now understood the meaning.

     The views of Vail Pass and the Gore Mountain Range quickly gave way to the Spires of the Grand Traverse as they rose to meet the plane. She was flying over the White River National Forest. The plane began descending rapidly and very steeply over Vail Mountain.

                                                               *   *   *

      Tom didn’t notice the tiny silver speck at first, or the twinkle of the sunlight from the wing tips. He was gazing directly at the massive earthen mound and its open snowfields.

The small lift towers were glittering in the morning sun, a millipede connected by a thin sterling string crawling out of the contrasting pines.

      He had come to realize that his Everest wasn’t a mountain after all. It was the struggle to become a paper lion, by putting one word after another, like one foot in front of the other when climbing. Perhaps it was finally bringing them together. They were so much alike in such very different ways.

     There! He saw it, the sunlight flashing off the seesawing wings. It had begun its perilous descent. The plane was buffeted by updrafts and unstable wind torrents. It dropped from far above Vail Mountain to the small airstrip in Avon. It landed quickly and in seconds was roaring past the odd group waiting. The large stabilizing tail rising awkwardly from the smaller fuselage, it turned several hundred yards from them and began taxiing towards the Continental Express Terminal. It rolled to a halt. The turboprops stopped creating an ominous silence. He removed his gloves and slid them into the pack of his horse. He calmed the animals, even though he felt like a young schoolboy.

 She had already overcome the butterflies of self-doubt and was descending the portable stairway, smiling brightly as she approached the group.

Sara looked at Tom and said,” Don’t I know your name?”

     “Hee Haw! Hee Haw!” Hercules yelled.

They erupted in laughter as their eyes locked, breaking the white silence.


      “Why? Why on earth do they call it Ford’s Porch? Sara Lacey stood in front of her writing table. She walked briskly out onto the balcony of the Charter at Beaver Creek, Colorado. Her red hair flowing in the morning breeze, her black slippers scuffed across the decking, she stopped abruptly and breathed deeply several times.

     “I don’t think I’ll ever grow accustomed to the thinness of the air.”

     “In time, you’ll acclimatise. They call it that because President Ford’s Balcony affords a view of the trail. It is also rumored that if the downhill racers hit the lip too hard they will land on his porch.”

     Tom Dillon was writing a freelance piece for Ski Magazine, covering the 1989 World Alpine Ski Championships. He pointed across the Alpine Village, past the Poste Montane and Village Hall with its red stone courtyard lined with bronze statues.

     “Look directly above the yellow and white festival tents. The Former-President lives in the back of Strawberry Park and the Inn at Beaver Creek. The home is on Elk Track Court. Spanish Prince Alfonso de Borbon y Dampierre, who was a member of the International Ski Federation was killed on that run.”

     “Killed? What happened?”

     “It happened right at the finish line below Ford’s Porch and Rattlesnake Alley at the end of Centennial Express and the festival tent.”

     “Was he really a Prince?”

     “Yes, actually an Archduke of Spain.”

     “I suppose he was handsome also?”

     “A playboy, yes.”

     “How could it happen?”

     “A worker dropped the Café Lavazza banner at the bottom of Centennial, about 100 yards up the hill from the downhill finish line. The Prince was concerned the skiers would not have enough time to stop after the finish line before the end of the trail and fence. He was skiing with another official and the official thought the Prince heard him say the trail was closed, but he turned and skied down. He was simulating a racer to test the stopping distance at the bottom and did not see the slim silver cable. It severed his brain stem. They brought in snow to cover the blood.”

     “How very gruesome. A royal life cut short, I worry about you all the time, Tom! Why do you do what you do? What is the thrill? Why do you have to risk your life in the mountains?”

     “The challenge of conquering the mountain either inbounds, or especially if you climb and ski the backcountry is the thrill. I have developed my skills over the years and I don’t take unreasonable risks.”

     The grey roofed stucco inn sat nestled among the Upper Eagle River Valley. There were two days left of the World Alpine Ski Championships. The Boulevard spiraled behind the Charter and under the cement walk leading to the Meadows and rose steeply passed the Highlands to the site of the Beaver Creek Tennis Classic, their room facing the white swaths cut through the evergreen mountainside. The ski patrol and a small army of trail crew workers were busily side stepping the downhill course. He reached up and adjusted his sunglasses against the mountain glare. Two feet of freshly fallen powder had closed the events. He turned and smiled at Sara.

     “I can’t wait to ride on the sleigh with Former President Gerald and Betty Ford,” Sara said. We’ve spent hours together, but you have never given me a reading before, it is a new beginning,” Sara smiled at Tom.

     “Fresh as the promise of the new snow.”

     “I’m happy to be here, Tom.”

      “You can see now why it was so difficult for me in the city. I was a fish out of water. The evening of your performance at the Empire State Plaza in Albany, New York, I enjoyed your Plethora of Poetry. I knew you were a hippie when you put a daisy in your hair. I would do anything to turn back the hands of time and reset our past. The truth is you can only go forward. Leaving the city alone for the mountains was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

     “You love these mountains, I can see it in your eyes. You were so abrasive. I was shocked by your transformation.”

      “It was like Nick Nolte toward Bette Midler in Down and Out in Beverly Hills, I was fighting for my life and in a very dark place. I thought I would be in a New York prison. You were the last person I ever wanted to hurt. I can’t change the damage done. I’m sorry, at the time, I was incapable of being a better man. Making amends to you, is something I’ve had to do.”

                                                             *   *   *

      The Percherons stood hitched to the sleigh draped in green garland and a large red bow. The bells on the harnesses jingled as the team stepped back and Tom and Sara approached.

     “Whoa, Easy,” the cowboy said.

     “They’re a beautiful team.”

The big black horse, the larger of the two, snorted and turned his head toward the outstretched hand.

     “They are from the Beaver Creek Stables and are a matched pair the smaller is Jim. John the larger is a pistol. Be careful, he will step on you by mistake.”

     “Jim is regal.”

Tom smiled and winked at the girl. “They pull the sleigh to the cook house for Kid’s Night Out with the Beaver Creek Children’s Theatre. The sleigh carries us to the theatre where we perform while the parents go out. We have a host of Western Characters along with Sport Goofy, Mickey and Minnie Mouse, who are all skiers. The show is several hours long.”

     “How long have you performed here?” Sara asked.

     “About a year. I responded to an ad that the Lodge was looking for a storyteller. I had just returned from a film and screenwriting workshop in Aspen with your friends. We spent the last day at the Maroon Bells and hiked up to Maroon Lake. One of the people in the group told me about the audition. It worked out well and I have been performing at the Lodge and Theatre ever since.”

     “They mentioned it, Ian had just finished his screenplay of his book in Hollywood it was a best seller. I’ve performed with Mary and Ian at Political Readings. They liked your poetry.  Did you enjoy Ian’s workshop? You have to show me what you wrote? I’m glad you’re finally getting it out. It has been over ten years since our first class together.” Sara walked to Tom and stood next to him.

Tom turned toward Sara and smiled. He looked at the base of Beaver Creek Mountain and the pristine blue sky. He wondered how this ever happened?

     “It was a very intensive workshop. I have the first act written to the plot point.” Tom replied. “I read Ian’s book, The Kitchen Man and was really moved by it, I wrote to him. He was having some trouble placing his second one.”

     “He finally got it out, Mary and I spoke recently,” Sara replied.

     Sara and Tom stepped up into the sleigh and sat back. The Cowboy jumped into the seat, grabbed the reins and gave a quick shout. The sleigh slid forward in the deep powder. The morning silence was broken as the bells of the horses echoed up the mountainside.

     “I thought we would take a ride around the village and stop at the Chapel. I would like for you to meet Mrs. Ford.”

     “Tom, I’m excited!”

 The sleigh slid forward with a slight bucking motion and the team fell into a gait, circling around the village in a slow arc. The dark brown contemporary non-denominational church came into view as the team made its way toward the building.

     “Sara, I’ll go into the meeting after I introduce you.”

     “I feel like a young girl again, Tom.”

     “You’ll be fine, just be your charming self”

Sara hit Tom’s arm as they stepped out of the sleigh onto the snowy path and walked up the stone lined stairs to the chapel doors. Tom opened the wooden door. Sara stepped inside the vestibule and quickly lookedinto the chapel with its large wood beams and ceiling. She looked around at the grandeur of the new structure, took a deep breath of the newness and turned to Tom.

     “It is beautiful, I love how open it is.”

Sara followed Tom through the vestibule into a large carpeted open side room with several couches and chairs. Across the room Sara could see Mrs. Ford in conversation with a young woman. She touched the girl on the arm bent down and whispered something to her. The girl smiled and laughed. She turned and walked into an adjoining room.

     Mrs. Ford waved to Tom and Sara and quickly approached.

Reaching out she shook Sara’s hand.

     “Hi, you must be Sara?”

     “Yes, I am.”

     “Please call me Betty. Good Morning Tom. Everyone is gathered in the meeting room and the coffee is made. Sara and I will talk here. I’m happy to see you here and I hope you have a good meeting.”

     “Thank you,” Tom said. “I’ll head in.”

     “Why don’t we sit down and chat,” Betty reached out and guided Sara to the couch.

Sara sat down and was engulfed by deep soft cushions. Betty sat next to Sara placing her hands on her slacks. Fidgeting with her sweater bottom Sara anticipated the coming conversation. Known for her poise. She was at a loss.

     “I hope you don’t mind,” Betty began. “You are an inspiring woman. Tom speaks very highly of you. He has also confided in me about the history you share together. There are not many secrets inside thesewalls, Sara. Secrets don’t lend to sobriety.”

     “Thank you, Betty. I assume he told you that I severed contact with him during his last episode that almost landed him in jail. I was so angry with him.”

     “Yes he did. If this is too uncomfortable I will understand your hesitancy to speak of it, after all I am a total stranger and don’t really belong in your affairs.”

     “No, I don’t mind. I care for Tom. I can’t believe the changes in him.”

     “That’s just it. Tom is a pillar of our community. He along with others started the Vail Valley Writer’s Group and they have worked with the Vail Library in sponsoring Children’s Writing Competitions. I don’t know if he told you. Tom works with both the Vail Valley Community and the Beaver Creek Children’s Theatre, he also performed at the outdoor theatre in the round at Cordillera, it was excellent,” Betty said.

      “He has.”

      “I understand he is to give you a reading this evening.”


     “There aren’t any guarantees. What he has accomplished could all be gone tomorrow. You know my history and motivations. If you follow the program and live daily in the truth there is hope and salvation. It works. Tom is doing everything possible to create a wholesome future.”

     “Thank you for your confidence, Betty. I met him in his scuffling days when he came to my workshops at S.U.N.Y and Union College, New York. Unfortunately, I believe in chemistry, our chemistry developed over years of working together when he wasn’t on one of his adventures, climbing or skiing somewhere. I offered to be his editor and wanted to work with him. He showed so much promise. Out of nowhere, he seemed to lose it, and was arrested.”

     “Yes, I know. He was not in a good place. It devastated him. It doesn’t make what he did right, but alcoholics are like a giant wrecking ball in life. They come in and cut a swath through everyone and everything in their path. They are incapable of creating and maintaining a healthy relationship. It is as if they have no moral compass. They are on auto destruct. They might go off at any time.”

     “To be honest Betty, I’m not sure I’m willing to take the risk again. Tom swept me off my feet during our last time together. He was so gallant and showed so much promise. We became very close. We painted the walls of my kitchen and bedroom blue. He wrote a lot about the mountains of New York, The Adirondacks, Catskills and his hometown Mountains, the Helderberg’s. They were poems about skiing Gore and Whiteface, and the Winter Olympics in Lake Placid, the writing was quite good.”

     “The thing is Sara, In a Glad Awakening, I speak of my journey back from the abyss. It is a very difficult journey and full of seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Tom seems to be doing very well with his program. There are good things to come. I trust his motivations, they are pure and from a caring place.”

     The two fell into silence. The din from the meeting wafted into the room. They could hear Tom leading the group in the Serenity Prayer.

Betty folded her hands in her lap and smiled at Sarah.

     “What happens next is up to you and Tom. He is keeping his life simple. I am in awe of his progress.”

      “He is an adrenaline junky and extremely obsessive! He has been obsessed over the sale of the ski mountain Arapahoe Basin, in 1978. Tom believes it was the Death of the American Dream, a symbol to it and he has to chronicle it. His disdain for the Senator and Ralston Purina Corporation that purchased it and his need to tell the history has clouded his vision as a writer, I believe. He reminds me of Atlas, the weight of the world on his shoulders. Finally, he understands what it meant to him, it has been very hard for him to put it in to perspective and he struggled. When he came to my workshop with his musician and artisan friends he arrived with the music score for his screenplay, also a rousing remake of I Had Too Much To Dream (Last Night) by the Electric Prunes.  He called it Living The American Dream. It includes his favorite,The Ballad Of Tom Dillon. They were calling themselves The Liberty Express. They played several songs for the workshop. Their music and his writing were absolutely captivating. He never wanted to become a historian, Tom spoke to me about the injustice of the sale of the mountain.”

     “He spoke about it to me also at length during our walks,” Betty replied.

     “I told him the only true justice in this world, is poetic justice and the pen is mightier than the sword and to write a poem about it, of course, in his obsessiveness, he wrote poems, stories, songs, and a novel, with his musician friends. The real reason I’m here, is when he was studying screenwriting with my friend’s husband in Aspen, he told him in a conversation after reading a story, he was working on about me, that he was in love with me, of course she told me, and now, I’m here trying to understand his struggles with getting the story out and dealing with his alcoholism.”

     “Spoken like a true poet. Please! I know you are doubtful, if you could only understand the time and effort Tom has put in, it might give you a new perspective about him.”

     “He hasn’t asked anything of me, only to keep an open mind. He wants to work together again, I know that much. Tom’s exile and extreme obsessions remind me of the Poet Dante. He has expressed a desire to go to Chamonix, France, in the Alps, and on to the town and commune, Cortina d’Ampezzo, it is in Northern Italy, and called The Pearl of the Dolomites. I have made inroads and have had readings in Washington D.C. my life is in the East. I have a teaching residency at the Arts Colony, Yaddo, at Saratoga in the spring. He loves the Mountains, Lakes and Streams of New York, but he won’t go back. It will always be the challenge of the next steeper mountain, the place with the deepest powder. He doesn’t just go to visit. I believe one day he will settle down, not here and now.”

     “Tom is certainly adventurous. He and his mountain biking, hiking and climbing friends have had competitions to see how long they could stay outside without going into a shelter with walls and a roof, they were literally like mountain goats. No wonder he could not get along in your ordered society. He has to put down roots, sometime. Gerry spoke with him about a house for sale across from ours on Elk Track Court. Tom is negotiating the purchase. It is a beautiful home. One would think that these mountains would be enough.”

     “I’m sorry Betty, I thought one time he was coming back to me, but the truth is, he loves mountains first and foremost, he always has and always will. It is time to make amends and live my life,” Sara looked into Betty’s eyes.

     “I’m pleased you can at least repair the broken fences. It will mean a lot going forward. We have spent many afternoons sitting and talking here in the chapel or walking idly along Beaver Creek. He has helped me as much as I him.”

I enjoyed our workshops together in between his adventures for quite a few years. He came to my classes after he dislocated his shoulder from a horrible fall at Arapahoe Basin and was rehabbing, to fill in the time, he started writing about his adventures. We became kindred souls quickly. I cannot wait for this evening and his reading.”

     “Neither can I,” Betty responded.

     Tom approached the women sitting and stopped abruptly next to them.

     “My ears are on fire!” he chuckled.

      “They should be Tom. We will all ride together with Gerald. He wanted Sara to have the experience of a Presidential Arrival.”

     “We can’t wait,” Sara said.

     “The sleigh will be just outside of the stable, see you there.”

                                                           *   *   *

     Tom and Sara walked down the snowy trail toward the stables. Sara held Tom’s gloved hand as they approached the couple in a conversation next to the sleigh and the large team harnessed to it.

     “Hi Sara, I would like to introduce you to my husband Gerald,” she said, stepping to the side.

     “It’s an honor to meet you.  Please call me Gerry. Betty has spoken of you. I look forward to this evening. As always Tom, good to see you out and about, looks like you’re the man of the evening,” the former President chuckled as he gave Tom a friendly nudge.

     “I’d return the favor but I’m afraid,” Tom pointed to the team of security.

     “That wouldn’t be very prudent,” Gerry said laughingly.

     “Shall we start?” Betty questioned.

     “Let’s go,” Tom and Sara replied in unison.

The couples entered the sleigh and the bells jingled as the team stepped up.

     “Sara, did you know Tom was our Santa for Christmas this year? He rode in on the sleigh with us for the tree lighting,” Betty said.

     “I was in awe,” Tom exclaimed as the Lodge came into view.

     A large cheering crowd of brightly clad winter revelers greeted the sleigh. The crowd was separated by a barrier and security. The noise deafening to the occupants as it slid to a halt at the entrance. Former President Ford and Mrs. Ford debarked from the sleigh and waved to the crowd. Tom and Sara followed quickly into the Lodge. The noise faded and the group walked to the coatroom.

     “I’m accustomed to an audience on a much smaller scale. It’s quite overwhelming.”

     “I’m not sure you ever really get used to it,” Betty exclaimed. “It still takes my breath away.”

     “Yes, We certainly are fortunate to be apart of the growth of the valley,” Gerry Ford interjected.

     “I hope you both are famished. This evening’s menu is a local Buffalo prime rib,” Betty said.

     “I’m ravenous,” Sara said. “I can’t speak for Tom but he always seems to have an appetite. He skied yesterday.”

     “Where did you ski Tom?” Jerry asked.

     “Solitude and next to the downhill course, I stayed on the Peregrine lift. The snow was tremendous, they said two feet but it seemed much deeper. It was cold with the Arctic Front ”

     “We couldn’t get out, hopefully tomorrow. I’m ashamed that we ski right after they groom. Our powder days are numbered,” Gerry admitted.

     “There is a lot to be said about a well groomed trail with three inches of vanilla cream on top for carving wonderful turns in the morning sunshine,” Tom expounded.

     “Do you ski Sara?” Betty inquired.

     “No, I grew up in Vermont but spent my spare time in ballet and with writing.”

     “Sara had her work read by Robert Frost,” Tom said.

     “That’s impressive, I guess you have always been a writer.” Betty replied. “ I understand that Tom read his poetry in a documentary they made about your life.”

     “Yes, part of it was filmed at Lena’s Café in Saratoga and the other at my home. It was hard. I was recovering from a car accident. Tom was very supportive.”

     The couples entered the dinner theatre, and were greeted by a young hostess who escorted them to their table. They were immediately drawn to a loud clang and mechanical whir and the squeal of a young girl. She was seated on a saddle of a large black metal horse and was twirling a lariat above her cowboy hat laughing gleefully. A metal track extended from the horse and a small mechanical calf on wheels burst from the front of the horse and rolled down the tracks. She threw the rope and it slipped neatly over the head of the calf. The group of children gathered around her cheering with delight. A young man removed the rope and reset the apparatus. The scene was repeated much to the delight of the children.

     “What an amazing thing,” Sara said.

     “I know, isn't it?” Tom chimed in. “One of the local ranches let the Children’s Theatre use it for the evening. All these children are either involved in the rodeo or dressage, along with ski racing. You would be amazed at the level of skill they have.”

     “I‘ve been to the ranches and watched them perform. They are really gifted and fortunate,” Betty replied.

     “We all are children of a greater God. Still, I love performing for them. It brings me great joy.”

     “We are excited to see the self-professed American Mountain Poet King perform for the Love Poet and Queen of the Small Presses. The connection you two have is somewhat Shakespearean and extremely intriguing. We will see what you have in store for us after Sport Goofy and the Children’s Theatre Performers,” Betty said.

     “Oh, Boy!” Tom exclaimed. “You’re linking my performance with Goofy now,” Tom chided the group.

     The waiters arrived with the dinners and the couples fell silent. The children ended their activity with the mechanical toys and rejoined their parents at the tables. A quiet calm engulfed the room as the server’s plated the tables.

     “Sara, it appears our friend is somewhat of a hopeless romantic,” Betty said.

     “Romantic yes. He has the propensity to be quite charming,” she smiled. “There is also a touch of insanity in there as well. He attempted to organize his musician and artisan friends to scale the backside of Whiteface Mountain in New York carrying music equipment to hold a concert on the top of the mountain during the Winter Olympics in 1980. The scary part of it is he was extremely serious and came very close to organizing it. I honestly didn’t know what to think.”

     “The Olympic Organizing Committee would have had something to say about that. Tom you might have been in significant trouble,” Gerald Ford advised.

     “Well it would have garnered the World’s Attention. I wanted it to be like the Beatles on a rooftop in London. It was logistically possible.” Tom said.

     “For what end Tom?” Sara inquired.

     “It’s like climbing mountains, because it was there, and because you can. I am a firm believer in civil disobedience as long as it is non-violent.”

     “I’m not sure that I should congratulate you or alert security,” Gerry joked. “If we didn’t have a history I might have chosen the latter. In A Time to Heal, I had to address the new beginnings for the country after coming out of a very turbulent period. I had to gauge the need for our Nation's growth with the desire for retribution of the crimes committed against it, by Richard Nixon. It will be debated for years. If you want to be an agent for change, let the change be purposeful, not divisive. There is too much division in America, today, in the Politics and International Relations. Your reading this evening is a wonderful opportunity for you to start a new narrative and accomplish the beginning of change.”

     “We wish you the best of luck,” Betty said sincerely. “Let this evening be your Cameo.”

     “Words can’t begin to explain the debt of gratitude I have for you both. How fortunate I am for finding grace in the mountain refuge you have provided. Here and the Chapel also.”

     “Cheers to all our good fortunes!” Betty toasted with her water glass.

     “Tonight is yours Tom. I always knew you had the ability, but you never showed the slightest interest in performing.”

     “Didn’t you perform with the Vail Community Theatre, Betty and I watched you at a lighthouse in the sand, poverty grass, beach heather and sea gulls crying rambling on about the buzzards of Hinckley, Ohio in reference to the swallows of Capistrano, it was hilarious Tom. You played someone’s Uncle I believe.”

     “You’re right.”

    “What a blessing you found your way to the Chapel,” Betty said fondly.

                                                     *  *  *

     A western clad figure strolled out onto the stage floor.

     “Howdy folks, my name is J.B. Tucker. Showman and promoter extraordinary,” he removed his hat and with a sweeping gesture made a deep bow. “This evening we will be attending Mirabelle’s General Store. But first I have a few friends to introduce you to. You all know Mickey and Minnie Mouse, and their cohort, Sport Goofy.”

The children erupted into cheers as Mickey, Minnie and Sport Goofy came out on the stage.

     “Ah, Hi Folks! I skied with a lot of you today on Centennial. How many of you took a run with me?” Goofy quipped.

     “I did. I was there,” a large group stood and waved their hands.

Mickey walked to the center of the stage holding Minnie’s hand.

     “Minnie and I are glad you could make it to the show tonight. We can’t wait to take a peek into Mirabelle’s General Store to see what’s happening with our friends,” Mickey said, backing away from the spotlight shining into the scene.

Just then there was a loud commotion and the door to Mirabelle’s burst open. Sourdough Pete in his brown cowboy hat and crusty red long underwear backed up in the door.

     “Now, Now Sure Shot. I'm gonna make good on that claim. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, there’s gold in that mine. I tell ya.”

Sure Shot Shirley in her pink pants and cowboy vest and hat was just starting to scold the old curmudgeon miner.

     “Why you low down worthless lazy bag of bones. You’re a sorry excuse for a miner. You spend all you time flirtin with the girls than tendin to your minin. You sure have a wanderin eye.” 

     “Why if he hadn’t been minin we might not even have a general store or a town,” Mirabelle said adjusting her bonnet and checkered blouse. “Isn’t that right Pancake?”

Pancake McKay stood bolt upright from the table and pulled down hard on his black cowboy hat.

     “Why me and Sourdough go way back, he helped me build fences on my ranch. He also helped me look for that Injun Joe,” Pancake exclaimed. “Joe knew the country the best and helped get the town started. You forget if’n it weren’t for Joe and Sourdough we’d still be on that wagon train headin west,” Pancake said sitting back down.

     “I hope you don’t mind but I’m going to get ready. So if you will excuse me. The performers should take a while longer. It’s not over until Sport Goofy sings,” Tom chuckled.

     “Break a leg,” Sara replied.

                                                             *   *   *

     Tom walked out on to the stage, buttoned his black jacket, adjusted his cowboy hat and stepped to the front.

     “Good Evening. My reading is for The Children, who in Youth will know The Strength and Find the Courage to Tempt a God of Fate. It is also for the Former President and Betty Ford and my friend The Poet Sara Lacey,” Tom slightly bowed.

     “ Upon the Mountains, Go upon the mountains, my beautiful innocent children. Leave the cities far behind, for they, they in their ingratitude condemn themselves to their solitude. I’m the Poet Tom Dillon and I will see it and say it and write about Mountains until all Children can hear me, because silence is a snowflake falling, until you hear me calling.” Tom paused and stepped toward Sara.

    “A Golden Poet King. Sometimes I feel as if I am a marionette of the last golden American mountain poet king.” Tom danced like he was puppet. “Dancing to a cosmic tune for her heart of golden strings,” a collective laugh came from the children.

      “A Powder Run. Light, airy, nowhere, emerald trees, my eyes see. I hear nothing but fear. Hidden pockets of which to fall in, always reminding me of him, God’s crystalline chowder,” the group clapped in response.

    Morning Light, Morning light, revealed the gently falling snow. Darkness unveiled,

Stole silently, stubbornly, assured of resurrection. How Life Should Be, Some men grow and go away to war. My friends and I, we went to ski. Isn’t that how it should be? He asked?”

There was a resounding, “Yes!”

     “Now, I thought I was a real cowboy when I was working in Sheridan, Wyoming and planning to ski Jackson Hole the following winter. So I went into Buffalo Bill’s Bar and thought I’d mingle with the cowboys. Here’s what happened. It’s called Disco Bars, I am just a child of the sun, moon, and stars. Sitting with my beat up brown, Stetson hat, in Buffalo Bill’s Disco Bar,” Tom chuckled as the crowd groaned.

 “I’d like to introduce you to some of my friends. They are quite a colorful group.”

      “Fox,” he said. “My name is Vondall- but you can call me Fox, been all over the world. Lived in Germany in the service. I’m from Oklahoma, if Ya ever been there you’d know why I live in the Vail Valley, but everyone calls me Little Joe.”

Tom turned toward the children, he raised his arms and made his hands into what looked like claws.

     “Then there is, Jaguar,” he roared and the children giggled, “Been living here for nigh on ten years, separated from my wife for the past two, tho I still love her,” he whimpered.  The children sighed. Tom stepped forward and howled, “Wolf, been to Alaska where the nights are long and you get into the bible and Jesus or you get into alcohol.”

     “Nooo,” they all yelled.

     “A show of hands. How many of you like to ski moguls?” There was a large yell from the children and a great number waved.

     “This is for my dentist friend in East Vail. Dr. Bumps. He’s Fred and he’s sixty and he’s been banged in the head,” Tom smacked his head with his hand and the children cheered. “He’s the oldest living skier on the Pro Mogul Tour. That just shows you what skiing everyday does for longevity. Fred will work on your teeth as long as it’s not a good bump day!” The children laughed and clapped.

      “An Alone Poem, They said I would shine, like a light in the city. I prayed it would be like the full moon across the Grand Traverse, but I was alone when I died with my powder snow poems on the plains of Wyoming. Now, there are a million children waiting for me. Isn’t that what life is?” Tom raised his arm addressing the group of children.

     “A Thought of You, I thought of you,” Tom looked at Sara, “the day they launched Atlantis. In the afterburner's gleam, I thought I’d seen, with a vision of crystal clarity, another maiden voyage upon an emerald sheen.”

     “Poet to Poet, Today, like many days lately, you have been in my thoughts. Reflections of the way life once was, images of bright white footlights and snow covered mountain peaks, cascade, as sparkling, glittering, gleaming crystals into the silence of your mirrored ballet walls. Transforming, melting, melding like flowing rivers into the sea.”

     “Now, everyone here knows I rescue horses and my Appaloosa was a rescue from local outfitters. You see Appaloosa’s are a stubborn breed and he wouldn’t take his cue to turn from the reins on his neck. Soo the cowboys decided to put sharp nails and tacks in the reins to get him to turn. He came to me with a bloody cut up neck. I put an English bit and used his mouth to rein and guess what? Snowy turned on cue. This is my poem against animal abuse. Appaloosa Sky, Now, I listen to horses in fields of green grasses, that reflect from blue mountains in waves of grey moonlight, that dawn is an Appaloosa with an eye of forgiveness,” Tom smiled. Horse Hair PoetryI wish for my poems to be like horse hairs that catch into your clothing, saddle blankets and brushes that cling and weave into the fabric of your life."

The audience clapped loudly at Tom’s sincerity.

      “On a more serious note. While I’ve had fun telling you all stories, there’s a few matters that need our attention and I hope you don’t mind, you see there is a serious element of deceit, confusion, and violence, so here are a few poems to tell you what I think. I hope you don’t mind.”

The crowd shook their heads in affirmation.

     “Loose Items O.K. So Listen! The National Centers for Disease Control unveiled a $20 million “hot lab,” a super-sealed facility for the study of The World’s deadliest viruses, including pathogens “far” more dangerous than AIDS. That seems kinda scary,” Tom looked at the crowd.

     “Now this particular piece was written in protest of the use of explosives for terrorism. The title is a little long-winded but it’s a lot like me. Paris, France. Wednesday September 17, 1986 Tati Discount Department Store 3:28 pm

Blast. 53 wounded 5 dead mothers and children. The report of a one hundred and five millimeter recoilless rifle echoes through Big Cottonwood Canyon of the Wasatch National Forest of Utah gently awakening avalanches rumbling through snowfields above the timberline of a sleeping Brighton and Solitude mountain sides snow shifting, sliding, slicing, slamming, snapping down among hundreds of year old pines.”

Tom shook his head sadly and continued.

      “The Liberty Express,” He raised his hand and pointed his finger at the crowd. “Mark my name well against the annals of history, all of you, who dwell so comfortably among the World’s Aristocracies. I have been among your peasantries! My Liberty Express is a mythical golden chairlift and it is on time and bound to the plight of truth and freedom for the children!” The crowd clapped loudly.

     Tom stepped back toward the center of the stage

     “This is my favorite Poem. Upon the Ocean’s Breezes, Listen! The ocean breezes are beckoning across the Isle Ellis. They are calling extraordinary artisans accustomed to nature listening. Apres’ her lady’s commissioning to let our collective lights shine brighter than the torch lit for Liberty, to let our collective voices be raised for all of Humanity, crying from the ocean’s depths of Peasantries, combating the silence of indifference, armed with swords of insignificance, to stem the rising tides of American Armageddons. Turning back the raging seas of Radical Extremism’s blasphemies, spewing from the cauldrons tended by the World’s Aristocracies, beckoning across the seas of mediocrity.”

 A hush fell on the audience as they reflected on Tom’s words. Slowly one by one the group began clapping. Tom acknowledged the applause and stepped forward, smiled and turned toward Sara.

     “From the Belly of the Beast, Once, I stood strong and tall atop America’s highest mountain peak. Turning I faced Mecca toward the East, to my eyes came this vision of a holocaust that brought me to my knees. Touching the very depths of my soul. I saw the American Armada’s storming the seven seas. Hear my voice ring, for truth and freedom for the children! To every nation’s mountain peaks, from the depths of the belly of the beast!”

     Quickly Tom walked to Sara before there could be a reaction from the audience, he removed his hat and reached out and held her hand.

     “My Video Queen. Won’t You! Won’t You Please take my hand, Help Me to teach the children to understand, give them our Love of the American Land! Put on your prettiest dress, a daisy in your hair,” reaching into his lapel pocket, he placed a daisy in Sara’s auburn hair. “You’re especially beautiful with one there. I just remembered your stare. Hurry up! Hurry up! Don’t be a tease and don’t forget your rouge. How can I possibly wear the cloak of the last American Poet King? When I don’t even have my Video Queen,” Tom stood and held both of Sara’s hands and smiled amidst a round of applause.

        “Audience,” he said as he motioned to the crowd. 

     ove is the gently falling snow. 

      ou are a divine incarnation Elohim conceived. 

      othing comes from the artist that is not from within the man. 


      esser men in station have accomplished far greater deeds when the needs arose. 

      n so much as the gypsies blood courses through my veins,

      ools walk a twisted path, while a King chooses his path properly. 

      he is a light shining into eternity. 

      e is a beacon striving for immortality.

      ngenious as it seems, it’s not a dream but a vision Muhammad willed to me.

      ever before has it been written, read or said as it will be when we perform for the

      Audience of the Aristocracy.”

 He turned amidst the applause, waved to the audience and sat down at the table.

     “Very touching Tom,” Betty smiled warmly.

   “Well spoken,” Gerry said to his friend.

Sara, still blushing, looked at Tom with a radiant gleam in her eyes and her nostrils flaring as she spoke, “that was your best yet!” 

     “Actually Sara,” Tom smiled lovingly, “ my best is yet to come.




The ebony tiles shimmered in the flickering candlelight of the China Garden Restaurant. It was summer solstice in Avon and Nottingham Lake was alive with artisans and craftspeople. Tom glanced across the table at Sara Lacey. Sara’s auburn hair glimmered against the paleness of her cheeks, her dark green eyes flickered as she caught Tom staring at her.

     “You look like the cat that ate the canary,” Tom reached across the table and held her hand.

     “I’ve been thinking, thinking of us, how far we’ve come. Do you remember Union College and that small classroom where it all began You brought me a rose in a blue vase?”

     “Yes, I-I do, you said it was a rose of a color you had never seen.”

     “I was destitute at the time and living above my musician friend’s studio and working with the Institute of Children’s Literature trying, to save money.  I was heading back to Colorado to research the history of Arapahoe Basin and Summit County. Your workshops were a blessing.”

     “I knew you were serious. I don’t know if you realize just how intense you get when you focus your attention or should I say, you obsess on something.”

     “So I have been told. If you remember you were pretty adamant that you didn’t know why I became so obsessed about mountains and you. It is all ancient history,” Tom looked directly at Sara.

     “That brings us to now, doesn’t it Tom.”

     “The thing is,” Tom hesitated. “My friend, Chamonix Steve, has arranged a chalet for me in the Alps in France for next season. I have always wanted to challenge the mountains there. They are everything the Rocky Mountains are and then some. There are five ski resorts in the Chamonix Valley alone. Mont Blanc at over 15,000 feet in elevation has several intense climbs. In Cortina in the Dolomites of Italy, there is a charm to the peaks that manifests the phenomenon of enrosadira, a reddening of the rocks at dawn. The opposite of alpenglow in the Rockies if you will, more enchanting is the pink color of a pastel that they acquire at noon in the days of May. 

    “Always another mountain, I won’t go with you. I have too much to look forward to in New York, and now readings in Washington.”

    “Sara, we are at the same impasse. Poetry and prose, the same thing can be said about us both. I can’t live, actually, I can’t stay in the cities.”

     “I whither away and shrink in the cold and mountains.”

    “And I’ve been a blathering idiot in the flatlands. You can never go back. What we had once is more than some will ever have. We are from two very separate worlds and they will always remain that way.”

     “At least it didn’t turn into a Romeo and Juliet syndrome and you didn’t die and I am not going to follow you into it.”

     Tom smiled, “I would have expected you to wax poetic here. What do you always say?  “It makes for hard living, but it makes for very good writing.”

     “So you do listen.”

     “I have an arsenal of Sara Lacey witticisms. Some day I may just use them. “Steal, Steal, Steal. Speaking of stealing Ms. Lacey did I read in Ariadne’s Thread,‘ Nothing in Moderation’ in your last work? You actually stole my line about the Motto of Arapahoe Basin from me for one of your poems. Also I wrote a piece about having a heart to write and used a reference to the oversized heart of Secretariat and you took the reference and expanded it into a novel”

    Sara picked up her glass and feigned tossing her water at Tom.

    “What do you say? We take a leisurely drive to the house. It’s a beautiful evening and we have been down this road.”

     “Let’s change, change the narrative.”

     “I agree we will never see poetry and prose and mountains in the same light.”

                                                           *   *   *

     Tom shifted the Ferrari into reverse and slipped out of the parking lot. It was warm, charming, Colorado evening. He shifted quickly and slid to a stop at the exit of Avon Center.

     “Now, there’s a classic example of success for you,”

     “What? What are you talking about Tom?”

     “Right there that statue of Casey from Mudville- a brilliant man turned sculptor, dead asphyxiation in his garage. Alcohol – damn bloody alcohol the worst drug ever invented- pacification for everything- people and politics-.”

     Tom shifted as the light changed. He slid around the corner. He accelerated quickly and braked slightly as he hit the tracks before the bridge called “Bob” and over the Eagle River.

     “Please slow down.”

     “Sorry, it is just so easy to go fast.”

     “Why must you always push everything to the limit?”

He let the engine idle. He sat at the light of the entrance to Beaver Creek Resort. He glanced across the road and up at the World Alpine Championship Sign. The distinctive Beaver Creek logo with its large BC crossed. He turned and looked over at her hair shimmering in the moonlight, silhouetted against the interior of the car. The light changed and he started again, only to stop at the sentry post.

     “Good Evening Mr. Dillon,” her light green sport shirt tucked tightly into her blue shorts.

     “Good Evening to you Theresa.”

   The Ferrari’s back end sat low as the tires spun out at the Sentry Gate. Tom shifted rapidly as he began the steep ascent up above the Beaver Creek Transit Center and the free day skier lot. He climbed rapidly and down shifted for the sharp hairpin curve at the 7th hole of the golf course. He slipped to the right as he began the long straight away that would bring him to the Inn at Beaver Creek, and toward the reddish stucco of Strawberry Park. He was still accelerating, when Sara slapped his arm.

   Tom slowed considerably as he drove past the grey stone of the Beaver Creek Chapel. He looked cautiously at the large dark wooden door. The black hinges faintly visible.  How many AA meetings with Betty Ford? Tom thought of the afternoons and the rushing waters of Beaver Creek and talks with her. The sound of the rushing spring waters in the swollen creek had comforted and soothed him. The small leaded crystal glass casting an eerie glimmer on the stone walkway.  He slowed almost to a snail's crawl. The full moon flickered in the vibration of his rear view mirror. It had been a long road. Tom had mistaken admiration for love in their early years together. Before everything happened, before his endless wanderings had brought him here.

        He had stopped, confused, lonely and disillusioned with his life. He remembered Beaver Creek. Skiing off the loss, her loss, he had spent the winter. It had meant everything to him. Skiing all the out of bounds places at Vail he could find, places like the chutes in East Vail. Purposely he had cut across in front of hanging cornices. He slipped off into the trees without any thoughts of what lay in them, wanting it to end, silently, swiftly, in a sea of white silence.

      Now he was going to leave it all again. The cars didn’t matter, the house didn’t matter, nothing on God’s green earth mattered. She mattered, but he couldn’t go back East, or as she would have said, wouldn’t go back to the family business.

      She looked at him. The man she always knew he could be or hoped he would become. They had come so far in such very different worlds and their worlds would never be one, unless she joined him across the Pond.

    He turned left onto Elk Track Court. Driving slowly down the wide paved street, he passed the recently gutted stone mansion under reconstruction and turned into his drive across from Gerald Ford’s. The garage door opened slowly and he pulled in and parked among his car collection, jumping out quickly and Tom ran to her side of the car, opening the door. She stepped out slowly and he embraced her, pinning her to the side of the Ferrari, her hands warm and burning on his back.

      “I’ve wanted this forever,” he said.

      “A lifetime and then some," she replied in a husky voice. “Are you really going to France?”

      “Yes, I can’t go back Sara. I can’t stay here, without you either. There is nothing here.”

     “What is there? No! Don’t answer! Europe is for you. I will be in Cannes in May and will come and see you after. I’m sorry the mountains will be closed but there is a tremendous Art and Cultural scene in the spring and summer. I would love to show you. It will be fun. We will always have Chamonix,” Sara leaned in and lovingly rested her hands and cheek against Tom’s shoulder. 

     “I’ll take you to Cortina d’ Ampezza and we can see the brilliant pastel pinks in the afternoons, against the mountain sides,” Tom wrapped his arms around Sara and for that one moment their worlds were one.

Mahavatar Babaji Mantra

Alta Vibracion para la Atraccion Mahavatar Babaji Mantra/ Vida Factory