This poem I wrote this last summer, on the first day of the same backpacking trip written about in the last post. It was a crisp, windy day that I found leaving me just as I reached the summit of Mount Adams in New Hampshire's Presidential Range. Facing a long decent before reaching camp, and another week of solo backpacking to follow, I paused to write the following.
This mountaintop I've seen before
Tough from the distant vale floor
Where its isolation's cold repose
Holds the darkness of a cellar door
Above the woods and valleys deep
I've found this spot's cascading sweep
And set my pack upon the rocks
Avoiding night's sweet pull of sleep
I rest in dark before moonrise
With fading light to ease my eyes
Looking up towards budding stars
Where there's no place for time or size
A sudden ache to share this space
With an old, dear friend from a forgotten place
Stings like carried winds from distant storms
Born from a far off mountain's snowcapped face
And a shiver tumbles down my spine
Reminding me of night's late time
As i know that i must head downhill
To somewhere warm, beneath the pine
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