Journeyman

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

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