I have jogged this route for several months, but yesterday the spirit inspired me as I reached the top and gazed across the Moravian graveyard. I never know when the muse strikes me.
60°. Ashen sky.
January rain soaked the path.
Jogging along a surging creek,
my Reeboks are pontoons
squishing leaves on a trial. Mist
haunts in hollows, wets my cheeks.
I cross a slick wooden bridge, watering gushing below.
Ahead the trail steeps up a 40° slope.
I pause, chug water, study the path,
then begin jogging up. Reeboks squirting.
Heart pounding. Calves and thighs aching.
Breathing faster. Straining up the soggy slope
higher… higher… the top in sight…
thirty feet away… twenty … ten … five and
then, gasping, steadying, I behold “God’s Acre.”
Row upon row of weather-chafed, marble flat markers,
nearly square, four inches high, point eastward.
Most have Lichen splotched over their names.
In the distance, on a backside arch, I read
“Till the dawn breaks open.”