The Sweedlin

In the summer dawn I took to the mountain and field,

Hopping the creek, and breathing the spearmint yield.

Passing the pond, I startle the heron perched in the pine,

Uphill toward the cedars, beneath heavy dew they shine.

Tramping up the mountain, which is half concealed by fog,

From top only, but to be up before the sun, I need to jog.

The sound of me moves clumsy vultures from their roost,

And to the tattered fence I am, which gives my legs a boost.

The only thing left are the switchback roads on posted land.

They were used for lumber, but are now where ferns stand.

With pumping heart and heavy breath, I have reached the top,

Admiring the mist, I lean on a tree and take a moment to stop.

With my back to the east I can see red spots on the floor,

The sun’s first rays hit the Sweedlin, as if God opened a door.

I turn my back to the west and see the blades of golden light,

And the forest was a scene to behold, as this moment was so bright.

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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