I wish to share a story
of when I nearly met my fate-
A tale of an adventure,
and a quest I had to make

A story of an abandoned mine-
A search for silver and gold-
Of prospectors, and the miners-
And the secrets they must hold

My father used to pan for gold
in the mountains and their streams-
And found enough of the elusive stuff
to make my mother's wedding rings.

I thought that I would try my hand-
to see what I could find-
So I set out to seek the entrance
to an old, abandoned, mine

I left for Arizona,
     to Prescott, I wished to go -
    Crossed the Rio Grande,
   on thru New Mexico.

Finally got to Phoenix -
   800 miles and count'n,
     then north, up to Prescott,
        Thumb Butte, and Granite Mountain.

            I pitched my tent on Granite Creek,
          with great anticipation-
           Checked the notes from my father's quotes,
                and began the exploration

   With my father's tin pan packed in a bag-
and his pic-ax at my side-
I felt like a real "old timer",
with heaven as my guide.

           I found the one I was looking for-
                with a darkened cave as the entrance door-
           And a handmade sign on a rotting board, said
"Welcome Friend, 1894."

Well, I picked and I chipped! and I chipped and I picked!
til the sores on my hands ran red-
             When I felt some dirt, drifting down on my shirt-
and some pebbles hit my head.

It only took a second-
for the ground to start to quake-
The dirt was falling faster,
and the walls began to shake.

I ran as fast as I knew how,
toward that entrance door-
When the last crosstimber broke in half,
and came crashing to the floor!

Now, I don't know how much time had passed-
since all of that began-
But felt as if I had been in a trance-
when someone took my hand.

I grabbed my shirt-tail, wiped my eyes-
tilt my head to see-
And saw a sun-dried, weathered face,
looking down on me!

He wore a wrinkled old hat,
an old flannel shirt-
Raggedy old pants, and a mile's
worth of dirt-

He had a beard of silver threads,
with a tinge of ginger root-
His hands were thick, and calloused,
and their color matched his boots.

He gave me a jug of water
that came from the nearby creek
As I began to take a drink-
he began to speak-

"Strange thing about abandoned mines-
they wish to be left alone,
To keep the souls of all of those-
who often called them home."

His voice began to tremble-
as he spoke those woeful words,
He seemed to be recalling
many things he'd seen and heard.

"It isn't greed that brought you here,
I can see that, in your eyes,
it's not just ore, you're looking for-
But another kind of prize."

"You must go back to your domain,
and you'll find that treasure chest-
For it lies deep within your heart-
and in those folks you favor best."

I shut my eyes, said a prayer-
  and asked, if what I did was wrong?
When I finished, and said "amen",
that old man was gone.

I never asked him for his name-
    or the place from whence he came-
    Some things are better left in silence-
and not to be explained.

I went back to take another look,
and gather up my gear-
Tried to find that “Welcome” sign,
but, it too, had disappeared.

I stood in "awe,and wonder,"-
of the place that I had found-
And with my eyes, realized,
I had trod on hallowed ground.

Going home I pondered,
'o'er the words that old man said-
But, did all that really happen,
   or was it from the "bumps" upon my head?

I got back home, and cracked a smile,
As I strode up to the door-
And there, hung a handmade sign
on a rotting board, said-
 "Welcome Home, 1894!"