The Summit
by John Hayes
The rocky path
leads up the mountain slope.
Where spring water gushes
I drop my staff
drink from cold cupped hands.
Refreshed, I resume my climb.
Summit reached, October’s wind curses in my ear
pierces dampened lungs and aching knees.
Clouds darken above my head.
My orange sweater with the green tortoise
planted on the front, drawn from backpack
offers little warmth as I pull it on.
Six mystic boulders beckon me
I take shelter in their spell.
My fingers probe red mountain dirt
sift it back to earth.
Clouds part
I taste the sapience of sun.
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