In the morning, on the trail, my memories are like the early mist
That slips down the mountains between now and then,
I walk alone through the mists of time,
And hear voices, and see shadows of the ones I love.
In the morning, on the trail, the light seeps dimly through the trees,
The spirits of my sons and my beloved call me up the trail.
I almost see them, tall, and strong, walking quickly on the mountain,
And now, out of site, through the mist, into my memories.
In the morning, on the trail, I walk through trail-quiet woods,
And hear them in the laughing creeks, the sighing trees, the rustling leaves,
My heart listens to the memories, my sons, my beloved,
And my steps quicken through the mists, anxious for trails end.
In the morning, on the trail, we walk together in journeys shared,
All too soon, the trail divides and God alone is with us through the mists.
But In the
evening, safely sheltered, the play of light on hands and faces,
I hear voices, blessed singing, and know the joy of love returned.