My mounting desire:
 
to climb the summer mountains
 
before the first snow.

 
 
 

Why are we babbling
 
of brooks and summer mountains?
 
Our tea is waiting!

 
 
 

Distant spring mountains—
 
do my feet still remember
 
how to take me there?

 

 
 

On a warm spring day

the path to distant mountains

whispers to my feet.

 

 
 
 

Four days past Christmas
 
some California mountains
 
wear new coats of snow.

 
 
 

With no walking stick,
 
how distant seem the mountains,
 
how narrow my path!

 
 
 

Third cup of coffee—
 
the distant piney mountains
 
come into focus.

 
 
 

My journey begins—
 
mist from the distant mountains
 
drifts across my path.

 
 
 

Feast day of my birth—
 
mist from the distant mountains
 
drifts across my path.

 
 
 

Midwinter morning—
 
my coffee tastes of mountains
 
where snow never falls.