Getting There

Getting there can only be on foot,

all uphill on narrow corkscrew trails,

some stretches strewn with rounded

stones that twist the ankle, others

washed away by rains or covered by

swarms of bees buzzing in your face.

You crave rest at end of day, but stars

hide, sleep comes only when it will.

At seventy plus I feel some vague

sense of arrival, of making it there.

I pass the evenings rocking in my

front-porch rocking chair, a precious

bundle in my lap, like an old love-

swelled rescue cat that neighbors

passing by might want to comment on

or pet – and then they’re on their way.

I have stories to pass on, so do they.  

Getting there can only be on aching feet.