A Post-Hike Poem

As you can see in the previous post, I was in the White Mountains with three friends, Andrew, Mark, and Josh over the weekend.  It was a beautiful, helpful, joyful time.  This poem is happening as a response.

Another gift.

Sometimes when everything changes

nothing is different.

Icy water beats your numb shoulders

or sweeps over you with cool pressure

but nothing is new.

The ache in your limbs speaks of rocks and dirt

and dead leaves underfoot.

Night conversations reach into

green glades perched on buried streams--

hovering smoke around the damp wood fire.

Pain crouches in the corners of memories and

fear runs around the edges.

Nothing is unfamiliar here.

But, still, 

the burning tobacco curls in and 

out with each breath.  

Your skin feels the prickling push of the world

making its way into your body 

and lightness filters through the trees.