As another year draws to a close in the crazy old life, I hope that you had time to enjoy the holidays in festive style with those you love. Now, it’s almost time for that “new year, new me” nonsense, and I don’t know about the rest of you, but my new year’s resolutions last about as long as the attention span of my two cocaine-snortin’, squirrel chasin’ border collies. So, I am going to give up the list making, the lofty weight loss goals, the money saving tips, and just live my life; Simply, just live my life in the year to come, and reflect back on all I was lucky enough to have this past year.
This is a poem that I did not write; it was penned by a man named Joe Mingus called Mountains of Time, but suits me just the same, and it captures my sentiments exactly as I look back on the year. I hope you enjoy it, too. May your year ahead be filled with all you need, and you find yourself just where you wish to be doing exactly what you desire to do.
The Mountains of Time
By Joe Mingus
When old pony’s hair starts getting long, and the leaves turn golden and red,
When the fox squirrel buries his winter’s feed and the geese fly south over head.
When the evening sun sets west-southwest in a sky that’s the color of wine,
I climb in old memories saddle, and ride up through the mountains of time.
When the springtime of yesteryear comes into view, with its freshness all green-stemmed, hip deep.
I can still smell the breath of the earth, as she woke from the harshness of past winter’s sleep.
I recall each heart-lifting happening, like each new calf’s or colt’s dancing rhyme.
But old memories and me, we must get along, we’re still up in the mountains of time.
A shadow of last summer is still lurking up here, though the flames of Old Sol are now dim.
I remember his heart that made my sweat boil, and gave thanks daily when he knelt at earth’s rim.
The long, endless days are growing faint, through a haze their shapes are hard to define.
And old memories and me, we’ve slow-loped through the rough while up in these mountains of time.
Old man winter’s still waitin’ with icy white teeth and winds that sing death with a gasp.
But he can slow nature’s dance only for a short time, as a snow blanket warms her while she naps.
So, if memories don’t fail and I keep a tight seat, we’ll look back on what we’ve left behind.
Up a trail that we cut, just as true as we could, me and old memories through the mountains of time.