The body fails the mind even before
the last moment cast consciousness to where
it goes. Forget disease, the slippery tub;
muscle slackens or turns to stone, wrought hard
by pain from errant bone, the ear, the eye
can fail from use , the joints refuse, the lungs
rebel; the parts unite to fight for warmth,
for softer, for a peace, stasis, for time.
The will can be hard hit by pain and dreams
of youth deferred until can fade or slink
away hardly noticed or lamented.
But yet, a mountain bald, a topless sky
invites just me to come and see a bit
of truth, hidden, held close along a ledge
secured by pine. A sweaty climb along
the bluff, a grunt of pain a pill can not
relieve, and now I strain to see tiny
iris, cristata; blooming blue and gold
and white so pure that God is real,
at least, worth consideration.
Atop the bald, a boulder makes a bed
of soothing heat to draw fatigue away,
and leave a space in which a breeze warm with
the smell of pine needles can ease my hurt.

(stock photo)
This poem comes from 2002 and rings even more true today than ten years ago. This is not about remorse, self-pity or even ageing, but rather the soothing power and joy that the natural world can provide, at least temporarily, if a person is so incline to make an effort to see the wonders that exist.
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