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Sonnet to Al Stewart

Surely along this rugged ridge he must Have paused a thousand times a younger day Beneath black oaks hovering in evening dusk Or hickories autumn gold where moonbeams play; Down narrow paths beaded with buckberries Clustered in tints of green, then pink, then red He walked wrapped in a chattering mountain breeze, Answering in make-believe to what was said; Surely a thousand times on sandstone seats He must have sat within his world to see Sourwood, wild fox grapes and bittersweet And wished upon a star that he might be Along this ridge a thousand times and more Living the days to come like days before.