Trapped inside for at least six weeks
by scars that heal at their own pace,
each night dreaming of mountain peaks
and crisp autumn sun on my old face.

I content myself with old memories
of decades spent on wooded trails
where leaves chased each other on a cold breeze
and told one another summer tales.

My mind drifts off to young men's places
places I'll likely never go again;
mountain valleys where white water races,
wild beaver ponds in isolated fens.

Then onward to a place once thought tame
when young blood still flowed in my veins
before time and wear turned strong legs lame,
where lowland creeks flowed through switch cane.

And shedding clothes in late December
so they'd be dry when I returned
from fording a stream, I still remember
the water so cold it almost burned.

I recall a morning cold and clear
when breath froze on my coat's front
while I vainly waited on a deer
but hearing nothing but a far buck's grunt.

And walnuts thumping to the ground
next to some small nameless spring
as leaves dropped slowly all around
and a cloud of starlings took to wing.

But then I look across the room
at the walker I still sometimes use.
Then I must confront my doom,
for months yet treks are just a muse.