A Morning Hike

The Poet Hiking On The Appalachian Trail

Under the figs
I woke to fog and dew,
white oaks, and mist
gathered low as morning had crest,
‘neath the branches of April
and the drop, drop of drips
descending down to my little tent,
when all of the trail ahead was amiss
with the questions
asked by the footsteps ahead,
and smoke and mist that slides
along the 4, 5 and 6
O’ clock wonderment.

And I began to overcome the weight
of yesterday and unroll myself,
as if some hobbit in escape
from mystic depths of caverns deep,

The fiery orb above a lit
a blaze of dizzy rays
to stagger my weary feet.

Finally zipper had done its Job
and finished the schism,
divorcing me
from nylon and goose down;

The great orator in the canopy
above took oath, again,
to greet the sun as I
gathered my stuff
brewing
alchemy of brown crystals.

Each day
I ‘rose to greet
myself with change.

Each day I ‘rose
to greet myself,
each day
the smoky fog on mountain peaks
and the religious robin song
let weep the pain of cities grown
bearded and gray.

Cities of steel and glass entrapped in plastic,
The smell
of asphalt and oily toxins,
mixed the stench of the daily
regurgitation,
and the wafting sickness
of fast food and Mc coffee
and individually packaged cream.

Each day a reminder of that old alchemy—
when bird and hobbit and kettle made
an ordinary brown liquid
into the palace of dreams,
and not just another sad,
sad walk though the streets.

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