I left my soul on the back porch,

beneath the old wooden swing,

the kind held by chains to a pole.

I let him rest in the shade,

to enjoy the evening,

and the glory on the clouds at sunset.

He needed a break,

a moment to ache without burden,

or expectation.

Upon my return, I found him gently rocking on the swing,

puffing a pipe, and smiling at me,

through the grey smoke.

“You ready?” He yelled, with a wink.

“The path isn’t easy,” I replied.

“The mountain is still there.”

“I know,” breathed my soul,

as he stared beyond the tree line toward the shadow of the range,

his pipe now empty.

For a beat,

we waited,

and listened to crickets at play.

Finally, my soul took to his feet,

stretched his legs,

and renewed his smile once more.

With the cold resolve of a champion he whispered, “Let’s fucking go.”