Destination by Mark Ayers

Destination

By Mark Ayers

This morning I went a’ hiking

No particular destination in mind.

I meandered uphill on a well-trodden path

Amidst quiet pines and granite boulders.

Eventually, I headed towards Goat Hill

And its scenic panorama

Of rolling hills, solitary mesas,

And the distant village of Las Vegas just awakening.

On that hilltop, I climbed over rocks

And I wandered among the trees.

I noted the aspen giving way reluctantly

To the softer hardwoods,

In a timeless cycle of succession.

For a moment, I sat in silent contemplation

But eventually I arose to move on.

I knew I had not yet arrived.

I followed one rustic road,

And then another.

Searching for a familiar path,

Yet none appeared.

Still the forest beckoned

And I listened.

I walked among tall conifers

Their cones strewn in a carpet

Of fallen needles

And branches no longer needed.

There I encountered a formerly majestic old pine

Long tumbled over,

Now disconnected from its roots,

Its wood-pecked holes empty and lifeless.

Gradually, it was decaying into the earth

From which it had been birthed.

In that moment, I discovered

What I had been seeking:

In this reconstituting of life,

I found an emerging poem

Striving to be given voice.