I wander up Bread Loaf mountain
The day before my Chaucer final
With my professor’s wife, an Anglican
Priest, and their 7 year old son, Luke.
I am not a hiker, but I need to think
About something other than Chaucer
So when she asked us all to go along
I thankfully said yes. No one else did.
I am not a hiker. I am an introvert.
I plod along, thinking, not talking.
Luke asks question after question.
His mom answers each patiently.
She says I’m quite taciturn.
I don’t know its meaning
So I say nothing and continue
Trudging up the mountain.
Luke asks me how I keep going.
I say I think of something else.
She asks what I’m thinking about.
Boethius, I say and take another step.
I need to read it again before tomorrow.
It is short enough to be read overnight,
Unlike anything we read for class-
Which was all of Chaucer’s works.
She offers me a bottle of water;
I naively did not bring my own.
I am not a hiker. I have a headache,
But nothing like Boethius.
We make it to the top, somehow.
The view is stunning and vast.
After eating a sandwich, Luke
Runs about, eager to start down.
The next day, I write for three hours,
Comparing parts of Boethius
To corresponding sections
Of Troilus and Cressida.
Stunned I finish, somehow
With nothing left to say:
I am not a hiker. I know
What taciturn means now.
I took a chance on Boethius
And found consolation.
I am not a hiker—
So ends my tale.
(August 2, 2026)
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