I don’t write much creative stuff, let alone poetry. But I’m a fan of Walt Whitman and my 2017 thru-hike on the AT inspired me to write this one. And besides, Karen liked it and told me to post it, so…

“The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections”
– Walt Whitman

As I near the half-way mark of my Appalachian Trail walk, one thing I’ve discovered is that the press of my foot against the earth will be my most lasting impression on this long path and perhaps its most poignant impression on me as well. As I walk, I watch the ground in front of me for clues to my next steps. Most of all I watch my feet and…

I do the best I can to navigate the endless rock
and shale and stone and boulder;
Aiming for the smoothest path, the unseen protruding
stone pains the sole of my foot;

They seem to conspire to snag and trip the incautious
step perhaps in anger or just ridicule;
I’ve stubbed my toes a hundred times on rocks
and roots like these;

Focused on the trail in front of my feet for such traps and travails,
my eyes are drawn away to small wonders living along this narrow ribbon;
A tiny gray-blue bird flits across the trail to grab my
attention with her angry chirps and flutter of wings;
Instead I spy her nest hidden beneath the fronds of
a fern and its precious contents of speckled eggs;

A lone bulbous pink petal catches my eye bright against
the greens and browns of the spring forest floor;
There it hangs inviting pollinators inside to lovingly
stroke its pistils and stamens;

The morning after a rain brings out scores of bright orange
newts bejeweled with glistening spots;
They sit unmoving on the trail
trusting somehow that I will adjust my step to avoid them;
Oh so many wonders to see at my feet that I must
forgive the stones and roots for their abuse.

After a day of rain, I smell the earth, the soil,
the life all around me;
My steps are softened and quieted
by still damp pine needles and decaying leaves;
After two days of rain, the lowest points in the trail are
now water and mud and composting organics;
My feet sink into this thick mushy stew
leaving deep prints to fill in with water;
After three days of rain, the trail becomes a running stream
quickly seeking lower ground;
My feet already sloppy wet, I walk the path I’ve chosen
and hear only the splashing of my steps;

The steepest descents pull my feet downhill faster and faster sending shocks with every footfall up my ankles, shins, knees and hips;
Impending disaster awaits a loose bit of gravelly dirt,
a misstep or the steepest climbs drag me backwards as I struggle;
The smoothest trails with gentle slopes give my feet wings to glide
as if I could walk all day;

The Appalachian Mountains are what they are
and care not a whit for me;
The 2190 miles of the AT simply wanders over the mountains,
flats and uphill and downhill, but most of all I watch my feet.

© 2017, Troy Lair. All rights reserved.