I climb Jack’s Knob

here on the page,
for it rises up
from my memories
of it.

sighs. Its trees
lean, growing up
as they age.

I sit on its top,
a fine point where
a hawk’s view
is 360 degrees.

The reader who sees
it is not the new
climber, but has been there
before–seen leaves drop–

felt snow on the face–
heard the far off sound
of a coon hound treeing,
calling “come see

this poetry,
tired of fleeing,
I found
in this place”.