How can it be that 35 years have passed since I first read this poem by my good friend, John Workman?
On Saturday mornings in Little Rock John and I took bike rides and enjoyed good conversations as we peddled out of town along undeveloped roads that have long ago disappeared and become streets of upper class suburbs. We talked of many things - and laughed a lot...
John, a religion editor for the local newspaper, had both thoughtful insights on life and faith, as well as a good sense of humor. Many readers would get the Saturday morning paper and go directly to John's article even before looking at the front page headlines.
Besides riding his bicycle on long trips, in later years he got a motorcycle and took a long trip to Montana. That is when and where he may have gotten the inspiration for this poem.
These days I can look out the window of our house in Butte, Montana and see mountains. I am blessed by mountains, not just sometimes, but every day! A few days ago I went with my 87 year old neighbor, another John, up to a mountain lake and caught a dozen cut-throat trout. With no one else around on that spring day, I enjoyed the serenity and a rushing in my soul that John writes about.
Here is John's poem which I found stuck behind the back cover of a book of poetry we've had on our book shelf for years. Judy, my wife and mountain lover, had saved it.
Sometimes Mountains
Sometimes
when driving the plains -
those
long, rolling interminable spaces -
I think
for a fleeting moment
that
far off in the dim, distant horizon,
shimmering
through heat waves,
I can
see mountains.
Mountains!
Abrupt,
rugged peaks
rising
to where the air is thin
and the
tree line is far below
and the
snow lies in undisturbed serenity.
A
rushing in my soul.
Sometimes
when sleep comes late at night
and
through my open window
the
breeze hums her lovely melody,
I think
for a passing moment
that I
can hear the wind
racing
over the high mountain pass.
I hear
it changing key from spruce to aspen
and
rushing on
to
ruffle hues on the mountain meadows
and
dapple the face of solitary snow-watered lakes.
A
quickening in my chest.
Sometimes
when the meetings are long
and the
speakers drone on and on,
I close
my mind and open my heart and think
that I
can feel the trail under my boots,
my pack
deliciously heavy against my back
and my
legs straining on the zig-zag climb.
And I look up and know that the summit is over the ridge above.
A smile
on my face and in my heart.
Strange
it is with mountains
They
are so very much more than they are.
John Workman, August, 1981
