I was high up on the trail when I heard it—
a quaking in the heavens.
Too far to pin the source,
and yet I feared the levins.
Wondering from where the change may come,
I waited for the breeze,
wishing for some sunlight
to start knocking through the trees.
But in faith, there was no point,
hoping matters would improve,
and I came to realize, before too long,
it was better for me to move.
Move towards the sound of giants,
grumbling in the rain—
towards the spot where none can see
what hope there is to gain.
And winding my way,
through caves and spiderwebs,
over rocks and glades
where the water doesn’t ebb,
I finally came
to where the mountain was spent,
and the trail revealed
the day’s firmament.
A picture so clear,
a vision of two worlds—
one of lingering warmth,
the other unfurled.
And looking out,
between sun and thunder,
I knew—no matter how caught—
I would not be torn asunder.
— ❧ —
Poems From the Peaks
This poem occurred to me when I was hiking on Mount Paugus in New Hampshire (though the images I used for this post are from Bolton Valley in Vermont!) On the Paugus hike, thunder rolled in for a bit and I grew concerned that the predicted rains were about to swallow me up. Instead, as I approached the summit, I found a beautiful sunny sky on one side, and a storm-filled one on the other. There was no rain at all, and it looked like two powerful forces were frozen in place by the other. There were too many trees to get a good picture of it, but the duality of the sky got me thinking…
This poem is one of a growing collection that I share at In Verse.