Saturday Morning Biscuits

The day begins with biscuits,

sausage and egg,

bacon egg and cheese,

it has become Saturday

morning ritual,

part of the routine.

Looking up,

the mountains call,

standing like ancient sentinels,

whispering like lovers

in the fading, forgotten mist,

beckoning you to travel

along their hidden trails,

a secret society,

a forbidden mystery,

but the growing pain

within your gut

says not today;

perhaps never again.

Below the James

gurgles and flows,

steady and rhythmic,

the frogs creak,

the daffodils bloom,

another spring awaits.

You think about

the people and places

you have known,

you wonder within;

does a lifetime of

mediocrity and underachievement,

lessen moments of greatness?

does not light shine

through the darkness no matter

where or when it shines?

do careless words speak forever?

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