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.

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.