Where does one start when sitting atop a mountain?

 

I gaze above yearning to go higher.
I shift my eyes to what lies below
At my feet, pick and shovel
handles worn and stained
I look to my hands cracked and callused
with age
My tools given to me in the sun warmed valley
of clover and wildflower below.


Mother, father, pointing, you start here
now go there; we can help only so far.
We broke the ground not to dig but to
build.
We are your foundation.

Day by day, year by year by year
with pick and shovel....
Standing, kneeling, crawling
move a boulder, fill a hole.
Mother and father, bodies left
behind, their love I carry is no
burden. I still see their long shadows
in the valley below, feel their touch. 

Up the mountain here and there
scattered patches of more wildflower,
clover, and grass.
Places marking my moments of rest.
I see the grove of trees I planted when
I started my girls on their mountain quest.
I wonder how high they will build.

Again here and there gardens of roses.
Living monuments to the ones I have loved
All scattered among tossed aside boulders.
Through each and every garden runs one stream
laid with gold and silver.
As my life meanders up this mountain so did
this stream of riches.
Each step I took lengthened this stream.

It flows, it flows with the sweat of my labors,
the tears of my heart, and the blood of my soul.

I will rest for a bit now.
Again I turn my gaze to the heavens.
This mountain stoops my back a bit
I still smile for there is more building
to do.

ccd
Aug.2015