Saturday Morning Biscuits

the day begins with biscuits,

sausage and egg,

bacon egg and cheese,

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

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,

frogs creak,

daffodils bloom,

another spring awaits;

you think about

people and places

you have known,

you wonder within;

does a lifetime of

mediocrity,

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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