“We are all influencers!”

Sunday, November 30, 2025--Poetry Day 30

Lone tree in Utah Lake

“We are all influencers!”

I am convinced we are all influencers
in some way because, like Benvolio,
we are in the “public haunt of men….
[where] all eyes gaze on us….”

What we do affects people—
knowingly and unknowingly.

Often, and much to our chagrin,
many people watch and imitate us.

Our positive self-influence propels us
and others to remember who
and whose we are, always striving
to live elevated lives, no matter
what we are doing or where
we find ourselves in life’s journey.

The key hinges on becoming
what we want to become
and then live and act accordingly.

It’s the little things that we do
or say that make the difference.

It’s about caring and kindness
and compassion and being diligent
in being astute, aware, and anticipatory.

As we trundle through life’s challenges,
embrace the power of your influence
in your own life and the lives
your families, friends, co-workers,
or anyone within our sphere of influence
and never underestimate your influence.

The Redwoods

"Early dusting of snow"

Saturday, November 29, 2025--Poetry Day 29

First snow, Mt. Timpanogas

"Early dusting of snow"

It happened sometime
during the night,
maybe early morning.

The temperatures dropped
during a rain storm
just enough to turn
droplets to snowflakes,
blanketing the high points
and the crevices of the mountains.

The smattering of snow
during the night was seen
by no one until the early light
of morning erupted
through the low hanging clouds.

And I looked
and was mesmerized
by the contrast of green
on the ground before me
and the white cover
on the yonder mountain tops.

Another one of God’s creations
flattering us vividly
with beginning of winter
and lovely white snow.

“Funerals: A confluence of past, present, and future”

Friday, November 28, 2025--Poetry Day 28

Three women in the a.m., Dominican Republic

“Funerals: A confluence of past, present, and future”

Funerals are those events we attend to pay
respects to the family, knowing
they are inevitable in all our lives.
Most that I go to are upbeat and peaceful,
full of passion, laugher, tears, happy vibes,
revelations, a few surprises in stories,
and a sense of humanity and healing.

Children give remarks about the goodness
of their parents, stories of birds, fishing,
them coming to every game and event,
funny sayings that they shared,
and other memories that usually draw
laughter, sometimes surprises, and tears
from both the speaker and the audience.

Talented children and grandchildren sing
lovely and poignant hymns or songs,
some they wrote for this occasion,
on guitars, pianos, cello, violins, and flutes.

Outside in the foyer, delightful old photos,
paintings, drawings, cool memorabilia
and a PowerPoint presentation loops
through the life of the deceased.
We all stop and watch, mesmerized
with the changes over time, knowing
these same changes are happening
in our own lives, more quickly than we want.

As we sit in the pews, our eyes focused
on the front where the casket waits
patiently to be transported somewhere
close by to an open grave surrounded by turf,
we wonder to ourselves what our funerals
will be like, what our families, friends,
and speakers will say about us,
what hymns or songs will be played or sung
or what stuff our children will drag out and showcase.

Perhaps, we shouldn’t worry
so much about that as we should worry
about how we are living today,
right now, and change anything
that might startle the mourners at our funerals.

Towering Redwoods

“Funerals: A confluence of past, present, and future”

Friday, November 28, 2025--Poetry Day 28

Early morning, Dominican Republic

“Funerals: A confluence of past, present, and future”

Funerals are those events we attend to pay
respects to the family, knowing
they are inevitable in all our lives.
Most that I go to are upbeat and peaceful,
full of passion, laugher, tears, happy vibes,
revelations, a few surprises in stories,
and a sense of humanity and healing.

Children give remarks about the goodness
of their parents, stories of birds, fishing,
them coming to every game and event,
funny sayings that they shared,
and other memories that usually draw
laughter, sometimes surprises, and tears
from both the speaker and the audience.

Talented children and grandchildren sing
lovely and poignant hymns or songs,
some they wrote for this occasion,
on guitars, pianos, cello, violins, and flutes.

Outside in the foyer, delightful old photos,
paintings, drawings, cool memorabilia
and a PowerPoint presentation loops
through the life of the deceased.
We all stop and watch, mesmerized
with the changes over time, knowing
these same changes are happening
in our own lives, more quickly than we want.

As we sit in the pews, our eyes focused
on the front where the casket waits
patiently to be transported somewhere
close by to an open grave surrounded by turf,
we wonder to ourselves what our funerals
will be like, what our families, friends,
and speakers will say about us,
what hymns or songs will be played or sung
or what stuff our children will drag out and showcase.

Perhaps, we shouldn’t worry
so much about that as we should worry
about how we are living today,
right now, and change anything
that might startle the mourners at our funerals.

Towering Redwoods

“A Multiplicity of Blessings”

Thursday, November 27, 2025—Poetry Day 27

Provo Lake at sunset!

“A Multiplicity of Blessings”

Some say that blessings
don’t come their way.
It’s how you look at blessings,
how you define them,

and what they do to your life.
They are not usually big items
like Mercedes, large homes,
bags full of clothes and stuff

although they could be.
It’s the small things—
peaceful bike rides along the river,
soothing sunsets and sunrises,

gentle cool breezes in the evenings
after a hot day, fresh apple crisp
with vanilla ice cream, a new day with you in it,
grandchildren’s texts and love emojis,

phone calls from friends and families,
a good night’s rest after a challenging day,
being able to exercise in an air-conditioned room,
feeling healthy despite getting older,

understanding things about life
you never thought possible,
being with your spouse on a daily basis,
being surrounded by beautiful flowers,

watching clouds saunter by,
having a simple prayer answered
in a way you didn’t expect,
knowing who and whose you are—

They all add up, like layers of
sourdough pancakes drenched
in fresh maple syrup, ready for you
to enjoy every moment of the day or night.

Big Sky, Montana

Sunrise at Bear Lake

“The Rhythm of the Day”

Wednesday, November 26, 2025--Poetry Day 26

The Colosseum, Rome, Italy

“The Rhythm of the Day”

The rhythm of the day depends
on the time of day you wake up.
For me, the rhythm of the day
starts early, probably because
that’s what time we had to rise
as kids and milk the cow,
feed the pigs, chickens, and horses,
and then get ready for school
all before the bus came.
My mom didn’t start driving
until I was about 14,
so it was get to the bus
or walk seven miles to school
one way, which was a bit challenging.

Now, the rhythm of the day starts out
early still, for stretching, reading,
studying, and then exercising
all before 9:00 a.m. or 10:00.
Instead of breakfast being
at the crack of dawn, now
it is later around 10:00
and lunch around 3:30 or so
and then a bit of healthy snacking
along the way until bed.

In between, it's about writing,
reminiscing, working in the yard,
taking out the trash, raking leaves,
catching up on the journal,
serving, teaching, and doing
things I want to do at my own pace.

The rhythm of the day continues
its joyful cadence as it has always done
although the melodic notes
may be different pitches
during each moment of the day.

“Daily Stewing”

Tuesday, November 25, 2025--Poetry Day 25

Delicate Arch, a place for stewing and contemplation

“Daily Stewing”

It seems that lately I am stewing daily
over things that shouldn’t be in the soup.
Watching the news frosts me,

turns my heart cold at mankind,
frustrates me to no end.
Seldom are there any positives

that rise to the surface of news.
If so, they are buried back on C1
and even further back

or not mentioned it at all.
And then the people on roads
seem to disregard every rule,

cross the big white lines
to get in out of the HOV lane
without batting an eye,

play on their phones at stop lights
and often need to be reminded
by a few horn honks to move forward,

or people who just roll through
the crosswalk when the kids are in it.
And then the leaves that just float

to the ground, pile up
on the lawn and sidewalks.
I can sweep them off one day,

and they are back again the next day
like people who still come
to the party without invitations.

Stewing about all these things
brings about the froth on life’s edges,
and I think perhaps I should avoid

thinking about any of it, maybe
mind my own business and eating
a few more pieces of red licorice.

“Joanne’s Kitchen”

Monday, November 24, 2025

Joanne's Kitchen

“Joanne’s Kitchen”

It’s fun to frequent different restaurants,
sample their famous cuisine, dine
in places that seem foreign to us
because the Yelp reviews were great!
We don’t mind sitting there, sometimes longer
than necessary, to sample their wares.

Often the service isn’t much.
We have to ask for water or a napkin,
a straw, and sometimes even silverware.
Periodically, the food comes cold
or not cooked to specific instructions.
Often, the food is plain bland, no flavor,

just a lot of it. I just sigh a sense of relief
when we leave, knowing my favorite restaurant,
a definite 5-star and above on every meal,
is Joanne’s Kitchen, where my favorite cuisine
is always perfectly prepared, hot,
delicious, innovative, and divine.

Joanne can literally create anything.

Sometimes, she just looks into the fridge,
scanning the contents, begins hauling
things out, and starts chopping,
slicing, cooking, mostly without a recipe,
just years of experience and trial and error.

Or she will drag out her famous recipes,
gather all the ingredients, pile them
next to the mixing bowls and pans,
and begin her perfected cooking dance,
around the kitchen, and soon it is ready to eat
for even the most discriminating tastebuds.

After each meal, I sit back, bask
in the goodness, look at Joanne and say,
“You are the best chef on the planet earth.”
She smiles and sweetly replies,
with love and a twinkle in her eye,
“It’s your turn to wash the dishes.”

“A Sunday Evening Saunter”

Sunday, November 23, 2025--Poetry Day 23

Bales of hay along the way....

“A Sunday Evening Saunter”

For a few brief moments
this evening, we sauntered
through our neighborhood,
the sun trying to wiggle its way
behind the west mountains,
some sprinklers watering
the grass, and a blue sky
with clumps of whitish clouds
wavering above us.

We talked about our Sunday,
hearing about becoming whole
in Christ, keeping sacred covenants
that leads to more power, and knowing
we are children of a loving God.

We waved to friends, neighbors,
listened to a few barking dogs,
and felt an overpowering sense
of peace and comfort
in our neighborhood,
knowing what most people
here do on the Sabbath,
sensing the oneness
with each other, with their families,
and believing we will prevail
if we but do what He asks us to.

We reached home, our sanctuary,
our holy spot, where we know
who and whose we are and strive
to stay on the covenant path—
forever, yes, even forever more!

“Thick Oatmeal”

Saturday, November 22, 2025--Poetry Day 22

“Thick Oatmeal”

As kids, mom began making
oatmeal the moment we left
the house to do chores,
feed the animals, milk the cow,
and shovel any snow
that may have fallen during the night.

When we arrived back to the house,
we washed up, prepared to eat
oatmeal, now so thick and chunky,
you could stand a spoon up in it,
and a bit on the cold side.

Fortunately, we had plenty
of sugar and sometimes
brown sugar to spice it up.
Often, raisins even appeared.
It was a challenged to swallow
the chunks of oatmeal
that didn’t seem to pry apart
even with a spoon and fresh milk.

Now older, I make my own oatmeal,
just before I want to eat it,
no preparations for me—
just one cup of water,
some raisins or craisins,
cashews, dried apples,
and pumpkin seeds
with a couple of dollops
of yogurt and just enough
oatmeal, all topped with milk ,
now a not-so-thick mixture,
a bit runny and hot,
just like I like it!

As I eat my oatmeal concoction
on specific mornings each week,
I think back nostalgically
on those early cold mornings,
thick oatmeal staring me in the face
while mom watched over us
making sure we ate it all,
and now saying thanks for still liking
oatmeal fortunately with all
the delicious accoutrements
mixed into a perfect texture,
hot and ready to eat—
now on my own terms.

“The demise of gardens”

Friday, November 21, 2025--Poetry Day 21

Fruits of the harvest--Photo by my sister Delaina Scholes

“The demise of gardens”

It’s that time of year again when gardens stop
growing, stop producing, the vines shriveling up,
and everything going to seed. It’s a shame, really,

especially after all the hard work we have done
over the summer, weeding, hoeing, clipping,
watering, fertilizing, fretting, praying, etc.

The excitement of planting seeds, watching them
push their heads through soil, flexing until
their leaves shoot out, and plants and vines

growing larger, and then the blossoms,
and our hope soars when the fruit
and vegetables will begin to set,

our mouths watering for fresh cucumbers,
tomatoes, onions, peas, beans, zucchini,
corn on the cob, new red potatoes,

and whatever else we have planted.
We watch the plants like new mothers,
waking up early, monitoring the growth,

digging out those pesky weeds that grow
and multiply much faster than the plants we planted.
Ah, then the harvest, the luscious harvest!

We gleefully haul our baskets of fresh vegetables
to house, peel and slice and eat our way into ecstasy.
It doesn’t take long, though, for the newness

to wear off, especially in a good season.
You eat, bottle, freeze, dry, give away
as much as you can, even beg people

to come to take away the goods.
Then, the temperatures fall, signaling
to the garden, “your time is up now.”

Just like that they quit growing, producing.
As we pull up the vines and the plants,
we pitifully mourn and even shed a few tears.

Then, after a long, cold winter inside,
the seed catalogs show up in our mailboxes
in early spring, our memories now dim

from all the work last year, the aches
and pains, and we yearn to dig
in the dirt and plant anew.

Gardens--photo by my sister Delaina Scholes

The demise of gardens: Keith preparing for spring
planting, photo by my sister Delaina Scholes

“Something Bugging Me”

Thursday, November 20, 2025--Poetry Day 20

“Something bugging me”

Have you ever had this bugging notion
that nags at you, and no matter
how you think about it,
ponder even more about it,
or even scream at your brain
to release its image,
nothing really happens?

Like you, I have had that happen
more lately than before,
and I don’t understand completely why.

It’s buggish that what I want to say
or bring to the surface huddles there,
even lingers longer that it should.

I think it toys with me,
dangles bits and pieces
of what I need, taunts me
with trappings of the message
but not quite enough for me
to put it all together.

Yet, it keeps nagging me.

Within time, though, sometimes
more time than I want, it slips out
or eases out slowly, cautiously,
nervously until it is there
and out in the open.

Usually, by that time,
it isn’t that important
because before I needed it
right then at that specific moment.

But I am grateful, even elated,
knowing all along it was there
somewhere in the recesses
of my mind that often holds me
hostage and demands a ransom
of time and patience.

“Fishing on the Provo River”

Wednesday, November 19, 2025--Poetry Day 19

Fishing along the Provo River

“Fishing on the Provo River”

I went fishing recently, first time in decades.
At first, I was a bit skittish as I drove up
the canyon in the early light of morning,
history emanating from across the way.

I remembered that fishing was therapeutic
as a kid, and it was going to be now—
or so I hope still with some trepidation.

Three of us convened at Vivian Park
on the Provo River, tromped upstream
as the sky turned blue tinged with orange,
ultimately and found a few deep holes
and gurgling water around giant boulders.

There we humbly submitted to the river
and its constant flow of water,
our new poles and lures poised
to entice fish to come join us.

With each cast, we listened intently
to the melodic sounds of the river,
flowing downstream in rhythmic tunes
of peace and comfort, lapping
at outcropping of rocks and bushes
along the sides of the river, allowing us
some time to ponder, even contemplate,
our very lives at that moment.

We didn’t mind that no fish rose to take
our flashy lures, some disguised as food,
like a blue fish, something Utah fish
apparently had never seen before.

Towards the end, Alex and I just watched
Kevin fling perfect casts into the dark pool
that once was reserved for kids, now open
to anyone who had a pole and wanted to fish.

Kevin McDowell fishing from a rock
in the middle of the Provo River

Fishing and philosophy heaped with psychology
and hints of times past somehow confluence
perfectly, especially early in the morning
along a rushing river as we talked,
reminisced, and hoped for better times.

Kevin and Alex fishing

“Reminiscence”

Tuesday, November 18, 2025--Poetry Day 18

Sunrise on the Mexican Riviera

“Reminiscence”

At times, our minds hover
on the past, some parts quickly,

others longingly,
like we would like

to remember those parts,
maybe return again

for just a brief moment
for a repeat performance.

Unfortunately, repeats
would not be the same

because our future distorts
the past, compares it

to the present perhaps
causing some consternation.

It is better, really
to leave the past behind

rather than repeat it
and try to correct it

with our present views,

thoughts, and experiences.

We are different now,
hopefully a better version

of our past selves,
if we have learned

from our mistakes
and errors of our ways 

and those challenges 

that hounded our past, 

hidden beneath layers 

of guilt, shame, and embarrassment.

now excised so that we can 

begin anew, fresh, elevated, 

moving forward and away

from the darkness to the Light.

Sunrise on Bear Lake, Utah

“Praying for Rain”

Monday, November 17, 2025--Poetry Day 17

Early morning 

“Praying for Rain”

After months of prayers
and a bit of spiritual cajoling,

the rains finally arrived
last night in torrents,

gushing off the roof
and through the open sky

and dropping delicious comfort
to the dry earth that has waited

too long for natural moisture from the sky.
This morning, our walk was different,

something about a freshness floating
through the early morning air

after a rain that cleanses the muck
that hangs clandestinely in the air each day.

We breathed deeply as we stepped out
into the new day, a fresh day, knowing

a cleansing had occurred last night,
as the heavens opened, now inviting us

to breathe deeply and happily,
recognizing prayers work over time.

“Doing the best you can”

Sunday, November 16, 2025--Poetry Day 16

By Sundance Ski Resort, Utah

“Doing the best you can”

Doing the best we can is just that—
trying each day to do your best,
whatever that might be
for you and you alone.

There should be no comparison
to others, only to yourself.

We can only try and do,
and keep trying and doing,
until we feel comfortable
in our own skin
in elevating our doing
to a higher level, and then
that’s our next best standard.

Our best today can continue
to be another best tomorrow,
more elevated, more consistent,
less daunting, less disappointing.

Doing your best today
and every single day only propels you
forward, ever forward, and onward.

That’s all that is expected.

Tomorrow the expectation
may change because your best
just got better, and you climbed higher.

Just think of what tomorrow
and the next day
and even the next will bring.

In the end, we won’t recognize
ourselves of yesterday
because we have become
a new being, a changed being,
one that exudes who
we really can and ought to be.

The Idaho Falls Idaho Temple,
a place where you can become more!

“Bed Snakes”

Saturday, November 15, 2025--Poetry Day 15

Purple Foxglove along the Oregon Coast

“Bed snakes”

Trying to get up
this morning was weird.
Really.
Couldn’t understand
why the lethargy,
why the paralysis
wouldn’t let me rise up
and climbed out of bed.
I decided it was bed snakes,
attached to my left wrist
and then my right,
then headed south
to each foot.
My eyes could not open,
would not open,
refused to open.
Some sticky goo held them fast.
I fought for a while,
used up all my strength,
then succumbed to it all,
and lay quite for time.
I don’t know how long.
Soon, the sun’s rays peeked
through the opening
in the curtain.
I sensed something changing.
Immediately, I was free.
free at last,
my eyes opening
with deliberation and poetry.
My arms and legs and I
swung my feet over
the side of my bed,
hope rising
with each movement.
Soon I was standing,
happy to be alive
and awake,
feeling safe
that the bed snakes
had slithered back
to their hiding places
beneath my bed
where they waited

surreptitiously  
for another morning
to strike again.

“The Natural Way”

Friday, November 14, 2025--Poetry Day 14

Storm hovering over the valley

“The Natural Way”

A terrible storm is coming—
or so people say.

With the chaos plunging
our world into despair,

contention rampaging
the streets and the hearts

of so many while others
are looking out

only for themselves,
hurtful tirades becoming

rancid reminders
of decaying morals.

What will happen to us all?
Some will seek refuge

from their storms of life
in so many different places,

some public, some private,
always seeking a place

where they feel safe
and loved and comfortable

and where they feel
like they belong.

It’s only the natural thing to do.

Storm clouds at sunrise, Bear Lake, Utah

“My Therapy"

Thursday, November 13, 2025--Poetry Day 13

Credit to my sister Delaina Scholes, a master gardener

“My Therapy"

Digging in the dirt is therapeutic.
Tonight I had a good session
with my therapists: dirt and petunias.
They sat in a carton of 12, poised,
ready to listen, go on a journey with me.

Hands full of dirt. Credit to my sister Delaina Scholes

I used mulch and manure from real cows,
combined with the local dirt to make
a healthy start to any plant, particularly
petunias, pink, dark purple, and periwinkle.

I dug a hole, mixed the manure and mulch
with the dirt, snipped off the bottoms
where the roots were bound,
and then carefully placed them
in their new homes, and smushed dirt
tightly around them like soft blankets.

They aligned beautifully between
the daisies and white snow in the summertime.
Together, once they mature and bloom
will create a colorful cadre to beckon bees,
butterflies, and those dainty lady bugs!

I am thinking about all this as I dig
in the dirt mixing the ingredients
while planting each of the petunias,
thinking about how it relaxes me,
helps me rise out of any doldrums,
and this has been happening for years.

Digging in the dirt. Credit to my sister Delaina Scholes

After finishing tamping around my petunias
tight and snug, I quenched their thirst
with water, until their roots sigh with relief
in unison with my own sighing.

Therapy comes in many ways,
but mine comes from the ground,
dirt oozing between my fingers
while budding petunias beg me
to plant them deep so they will grow
into the beauty they were meant to become.

Credit to my sister Delaina Scholes, a master gardener

Credit to my sister Delaina Scholes, a master gardener

“Seven Haiku”

Wednesday, November 11, 2025--Poetry Day 11

“Seven Haiku”

Plum blossoms open
Thinking it’s time to arrive
Burst into full bloom.

Sunsets bring beauty
Calmness, peace, serenity
Poised for all to enjoy.

Streams gurgle downstream
Sharing a stillness for all.
We stop to enjoy.

Winds blow across me,
Shifting my senses southward
Toward tenderness.

Quaken aspen leaves
Sing and dance melodically
Soothing saddened hearts.

Full moon lights the way
Spreading rays of vibrancy
Across fields of wheat.

Soothing winds caress
Abundant craggy landscapes
Whispering essence.

“Tinkering”

Tuesday, November 11, 2025--Poetry Day 11

“Tinkering”

Tinkering is what we do
in our lives to fix the things
that seem to be broken.

Often, though, we tinker
with things that really
don’t need tinkering.

Other times, we fail
to tinker with things
that should be fixed,
thinking that we won’t
be able to fix it,
somehow knowing
that if we do tinker
with whatever,
we might change
something for the worst.

Why not for the better?

It’s a concept worth
tinkering about.

Tinkering with bad habits
and creating new ways
is a good thing, right?

What about tinkering
with friendship to develop
a more committed friendship?

Still, tinkering
with our terrifying
and often loathsome situations
to elevate ourselves
to become something better
or create an environment
of comfortability is probably
a good thing to do. True?

Tinkering helps us
use our minds, our hands,
our figuring-out-things skills.

So, I say, tinker away
to create a better you,
and along the way
you become a better tinkerer!

“An epiphany moving sprinkler pipe: a peek into my future”

Monday, November 10, 2025--Poetry Day 10

Credit to Dennis D. Hammon Photography

“An epiphany moving sprinkler pipe: a peek into my future”

I thought at a younger age,
say 4th grade, I could be
the president of the United States.

 
I didn’t really know
how to be one,
just thought I could
if I read the brown covered biographies
of all the presidents, did what they did.

 
I liked them all—
Washington, Adams, Jefferson,
Jackson, and especially Lincoln.

 
It didn’t take long to discover
I decided I didn’t have
the right pedigree
or money or even a degree
at one of the Ivy Leagues.

 
I didn’t even get elected
president of any club
although I tried.

 
I was just a regular Joe
at rural schools,
and the dream slithered
into a field of famous potatoes.

 
One day moving sprinkler pipe
in wet potato lines,
something within me changed,
propelled me to think
about the future, my future.

 
I stood on a rocky ridge
overlooking a pond
full of frogs and polly wogs,
my chaps and face caked
with mud and surrounded
by acres and acres of russets.

 
At that very moment,
I decided I best become
a college student someday,
make something of myself,
maybe do something grand.

 
It was the mud, the pesky mosquitoes,
dirty hands, the heat,
the disheveled hair under a ball cap,
and a 33-foot, 4” sprinkler pipe
at my feet that convinced me
there was something better that,
perhaps, I could do something
beyond my ruralness, something
beyond that hill full of rocks
and weeds and pond full of frogs
and that long sprinkler pipe
full of silt and water.

Credit to Dennis D. Hammon Photography

“Tsunami of Aging”

Sunday, November 9, 2025, Poetry Day 9

A walk along Hobble Creek

“Tsunami of Aging”

After 50, definitely after 60,
they come in torrents,
a flourishing of aches
and pains, and some memory loss—
okay, lots of memory loss
after 60 or so, maybe sooner,
and maybe some before.
Who remembers
that stuff anyway?
Even the stairs at the gym
are hard to climb.
You are out of breath before
you even start the exercising.
One lap seems way more
than a mile,
and a mile seems like,
well, perhaps we stop
before that to lift weights,
not many, mind you.
They seem so heavy
now that I think about it.
Water never tasted so good
after each lap, each lift,
each rest period,
all within ten minutes
of each other,
and then a giant “whew!”
Truly an accomplishment
until you start downstairs
and the locker, more water,
and then out the door,
into the brisk, yet sunny morning,
then into the car, slinking
down into those cushioned
hot seats, and another deep sigh
with the heat on high
and me recovering
from this tsunami of aging.

Biking on the Provo River Trail