Sometimes Mountains

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