Posted in Quatrain

The Path Not Taken

Of everything I’ve sadly missed,
the biggest on my bucket list
is searching for my Holy Grail:
to hike the Appalachian Trail.

I seldom ever mention it
for fear that someone’s caustic wit
would cite my age, call it insane
to hike from Georgia up to Maine.

Yet still I linger in that dream,
the wish a sadly fading gleam.
To try would be a foolish fling.
I know my chicken’s not in spring.

But, oh, the sights these eyes would see
were I to chase that destiny
while clinging to a mountain ridge
or scrambling o’er a rocky bridge.

On footpaths filled with scents of pine,
the birds sing hymns. This forest shrine
plays host to ev’ry living thing
and guides each one by gentle wing.

With tattered map to mark my routes
and feet in mud encrusted boots,
the trail would yield the best reward:
myself and nature well-explored.

Each passing year, the plan grows dim
as such a feat seems like a whim.
But never does my dream go stale
to hike the Appalachian Trail.

© Susan Schoeffield

Written for the 9/7/14 prompt at Creative Bloomings to write a poem about something you’ve always wanted to do but know you probably never will.

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