Rooted darkly down primeval depths,
The mountain lifts its sunlit slopes skyward.
While flinty spines dive fervently downward
Between wetted walls of secret hollows.

Rain comes, springs burst forth,
The outward flow becomes a stream.
Seeds root their way through rock ribs,
Feverishly anticipating a greater life to come.

Today, deer and bear and bird range above,
Moles, foxes and ground squirrels burrow below.
Tomorrow, quakes may raise cave walls
Into sunlight and rocky peaks turn darkly sullen.

Inside, darkness and light dwell side-by-side,
Languor weds warmth and joy to abject sadness,
The living come to bury their dead,
And the mountain is simply the mountain.

Traveling through a world of hurt,
Darkness hanging round me night and day;
Looking for relief from memories that
Break my heart and turn the clouds to gray;

I wouldn’t choose this lonely life,
If only I could find another way.

I feel a clearing of the skies.
The last drop of rain flings itself
From the roof's edge, and the wind
Carries it away to fall in the garden next door.
Little gray birds flit among the leaves, finding
Sanctuary in the gnarly branches of an old orange tree.
Yesterday, the wind sounded like ancient Aoleus
Dragging a long, gray beard through protesting grasses.
Today, it is young and lean, nipping at the clouds
Like a young dog at the heels of fleecy sheep.
A mountain's bulk shoulders the vap'rous flock up and over,
Pushing them onward to anticipating poets.
The rain endures, the wind abates,
Cloud tatters cast occasional shadows
Yet,
I feel a clearing of the skies.

Wand'ring paths where no light shines;
Tangled up in webs and vines;
Misled by mistaken signs;
Looking for myself.

Landscape rising bleak and stark;
Meeting strangers in the dark;
Arrows find their bleeding mark;
Looking for myself.

Eyes that look but cannot see;
Feet that run but cannot flee;
Thoughts that sing but are not free;
Looking for myself.

Flowers growing upside down;
Water burning with no sound;
Shadows gath'ring all around;
Looking for myself.

He said his name was Joe Young.
I teased and called him mighty
When I'd pulled ahead and stopped
To intercept him at a pullout.

His bicycle, encumbered, stem to stern,
By neatly rolled up and tied on bundles,
Seemed too heavy to be pushed,
As he was doing, much less ridden.

He wasn't a young man by any means,
But when I shook his hand, his grip exuded strength;
His eyes full of the merriment that comes only
From a heart that loves life and enjoys living it.

Joe's untrimmed beard covered his face and chest,
Blended at the sides with longish uncut hair.
Whether blond, red, or gray remained a mystery.
His lips, as he spoke, hid behind a wide red mustache.

We sat together on the tailgate of my pickup truck.
Our stories of adventure traveling back and forth.
My own seemed mild compared to his, but when I told my dream,
He laughed aloud in genuine appreciation. He understood.

He went his way, trudging byways, seeing the country, edge to edge.
I drove on, richer for having seen his eyes and heard his voice.
And when I, too, hit the road in months to come,
I pray I’ll cross paths again with mighty Joe Young,
Somewhere in America, living life his way.