Tuesday, January 28, 2025

Poem for Now

 

When I get to the top

I know the mountain

Is only this high.

 

I am not exceptional

So it makes sense that

This is my climb.

 

Roots and rocks

At seven o’clock

Each step, each intention.

 

Green beans and mayhem

Be damned above

The tree line.

 

Ghosts dogs

Go with me

When I call their names.

 

Every time I climb

The past

Grows smaller.

 

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