Saturday Morning Biscuits

the day begins with biscuits,

sausage and egg,

bacon egg and cheese,

a 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,

frogs creak,

daffodils bloom,

another spring awaits;

you think about

people and places

you have known,

you wonder within;

does a lifetime of

mediocrity and underachievement,

lessen a moment 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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