Traipsing along under vanilla skies,
the splatters of rain came as little surprise.
Then the spray of the sea salt blew into my eyes,
providing my tears a means of disguise.
Climbing the hillside, away from the surf,
my ancient legs struggled with the rough turf.
Once I tripped lightly whereas now I trod
with difficulty over each giant clod.
But then a companion looks down from the view
and points out it’s wild ginger we’re struggling through.
Regaining my humor, I start to have fun,
always a sucker for a corny pun,
for without a clue and with no way of knowing,
I’ve been gingerly coming and gingerly going.
For the dVerse Poets prompt, we were given a list of spices and asked to include at least three in our poem. I couldn’t find a picture of me hiking lately (for good reason) but could only find this photo of me in my twenties, perhaps imagining how I’d be fifty years from now ????