Colors of fragrance
drift up from the earth,
pastels and bolds of wild fruit and flowers,
the rare swallowtail of April
surging through the scent,
pulsing among the trunks and branches.

Along the grass of the old logging trail,
last year’s stems stiff their brown
amidst the green and growing.
The breeze pauses in the leaves.

The sun’s sudden warmth on my face
burns through the thin of faded shirt,
reminding me that I was young
years ago
and often worked or walked
without a shirt.

I smile to myself,
think only briefly
of hiking bare bellied for a while.
The breeze returns,
gently tugging such thoughts
out of my mind.

I am not young now
and such pale softness
should remain concealed from the world.

But I did make the climb
from the creek bed
to the top of the ridge
in less than six minutes today.

In every stage of life
there is reason for giving thanks
to him who has made us
mortal.

H. Arnett
4/21/10