The Snowy Peaks
A storm passes; the page remains.
When my son returned he threw his school bag angrily against the wall ran headlong upstairs red-faced slamming doors. There was not much to say as I picked up his rucksack to empty his half eaten lunch the paper fell on the floor handscrawled 8 year-old cursive. ‘the snowy peaks’ i see a hiker i feel snow i hear whistling wind i smell flowers i regret my life choices i keep on going when i get back down i skip rocks at the beach folding his poem I slide it under the door.
Yes. In the simple mystery of what happens journeying from the mountains to the sea we can find our humanity isn't diminished with fewer years. Very compelling and encouraging. Thank you for this intimate sharing.
...and then one day...
Love this poem in a poem. Your son’s poem brought me peace!