Suzanne Underwood Rhodes

Buck Mountain

He got to where he wasn’t so sure-
footed but we’d always hiked
and he wasn’t ready to let go
of the wild, though twice or more
he stumbled and it was hard to watch
my cocksure man who’d flown
airplanes and flew me from a wreckage
to his peace, hard to see him slip
on the slope, the stony dirt,
boots and jeans off-kilter
but quick to rebound, not hurt,
not then.

Today I test myself and go down
Buck Mountain. No path, just 
bone-bare trees and tanglements
of briars, the steep cold of a late
January afternoon. Down, down,
don’t trip wondering what more
you have lost these two years since
he didn’t get up. Grasp the waists
of saplings, keep your boots
grounded, trust who you are now
as you near the bottom,
the creek running to the river.

Back to Issue XV…