The mountain
    was so long ago.

Yet, I feel its pulse
    throbbing under foot --
  into my ever-loving sole.

[You thought I was going to say:
    "everlasting soul," didn't you?

Do you think my soles
    inconsequential in comparison
  to my soul?]

Nothing is firmer or finer
    than the point at which 
   I touch (& know) the earth,
     than the point which 
    presses the real,
   and, thus, by which I have 
      evidence that I live. 

[The ghost feels nothing in its soles --
    if such a being exists.]

These lowly old soles connect me
    to all that is, was, and ever shall be.