VIEW FROM A MOUNTAIN RIDGE
“Mom,” I ask on the way to the car,
“Do you remember hiking with me
on the Appalachian Trail?”
Single file, step by step along the ridgeline
of Blood Mountain, three days
to walk ten miles, Mom leading the way
with a hiking stick in each hand, one long
leisurely conversation, long overdue—
the trail winding between prehistoric
outcrops of granite, climbing and descending
through a luminous wilderness,
wild forest falling away on either side
on steep leaf-shadowed slopes
in green-tinted sunlight—
cooking breakfast and dinner in doll-size
aluminum pans over her tiny propane stove,
camping one night in a shelter
of rough-hewn stone and weathered beams,
the next in her cramped pup tent
in a dry wash below the trail
among rocks and roots and fallen leaves,
the most level place we could find—
That was seven years ago,
when Mom was seventynine,
and everything’s changed now, except
once again I match my steps to hers
as we cross the parking lot
hand in hand, headed for the car
to visit Dad in the hospital after his bypass,
and she looks at me in one of her
flashes of lucidity, without blinking,
as if through a momentary gap
in drifting early morning mist,
without even a heartbeat’s
hesitation, her voice clear and firm, declaring,
“The highlight of my life!”
FIRMLY PLANTED
Both feet firmly planted
on his skateboard,
eyes on his phone,
he rolls past my front porch
at warp speed
coasting the slight grade
of the subcontinental divide
into the cul-de-sac
with a sound like steel and asphalt
howling together
from some granite ridge
at moonrise.
