Poetry-The Hike

Six A.M.

The sweat was already making its way down your nose and forehead.

Your feet:

exhausted.

Your ankles:

beat.

Your shoulders:

torn.

Your strength:

winding down.

But,

your spirit:

everlasting.

You had begun the hike early.

You despised sleep.

Only nature energized you

and tested you

simultaneously.

The hills had been no challenge for your experienced body.

You could handle the stress.

You knew your muscles would thank you one day,

much like how your children would

once they were finished taking this hike

with you.

Today

was their day

to appreciate the beauties of the planet.

To observe

its fragilities,

its magnitudes,

its graces,

and its destructions

and reconstructions

to watch

your own life

flash

before your eyes:

there

was sorrow,

there

was pain,

and somehow

or rather,

you

had let yourself

go on hikes

each day

at six A.M

and see how there was a lot of the same:

a pure orange sunrise,

a sea of green trees,

kind, old rocks

and time is interwoven between everything,

sparking infinity.