It’s not the car
but the longing
that pulls me forward--
that’s what mountains do
they have a hold
on my heart.
In my imagination
I take the next exit
to the trailhead,
the lake, or cabin.
These mountains
belong to somebody.
I can feel it.
Not because they
are owned,
but because
they are loved.
Someone loves
that ridge,
that forest,
that outcropping of
sandstone, shale.
Here someone
saw their first
lady slipper,
trillium, or hawk.
My father-in-law
walked the same
wood path after
work each day
past granite
under oaks and
pine.
And those trees
still stand vigil
at the edge
of the field,
waiting
faithfully—
they whisper
his name with love
in the wind.
© 2025 Gretchen L. Schmelzer, PhD