in the morning mirror
the apparition of my old self
as skinny as i was forty years ago
but with white hair
and weird spots and scars
my backwards mouth grimaces
i return once more
to the base of a mountain
so called because it’s too long
and skinny to be a hill
there’s no summit
just the end of a ridge
rising from the river
shouldering the railroad and a highway
i begin again on a steep path
deep in dry leaves
a carolina wren choruses
from an old cellar hole
tiredness vanishes
part-way up
the mountain gives strength
takes deep breaths of wind
a few tree shadows still shelter
patches of snow
the first butterfly’s black velvet
wings ease open
a mourning cloak
soaking up the sun
the sky goes from clear
to blue au lait
the ground from high gloss
to dull tarnish
the ridgeline beckons for miles
open-ended
step by careful step
through the rocks