The Last Mountain

For Bruce Mendenhall

Behind your house stood an
Insistent mountain,
Calling to you day and night,
As quietly as an angel.

You heard its gentle voice,
Shimmering above the valley,
Glistening with the truth of your
Inevitable departure.

But you did not want
To leave just yet
The dear ones who
Stood so near you.

Then came the call, like
Lightening without thunder,
Rolling down the mountainside,
Opening a passage to
The beckoning summit.

Suddenly dispersed of its shroud,
You climbed, prayer on prayer,
Its misty slopes one last time.

—Michael Fitzgerald

Thanksgiving, 2010