It has been a long time, Mountain, I have been here.
Where tiny, black pools of light
have blended into soft gray shadows,
I have worshipped:
dark on dark,
wood on wood
(water is heavy).
Half of what belongs to you : the rain.
All mist and hillside : this is how you choose to come here—
not because you must, but because you are willing.
Still, somehow, I knew you’d wait to be discovered;
somehow, distance taking in
whatever needs to be found by it.
(I cannot blame you;
mountains are vulnerable.)
There is a certain kind of beauty in that—
not wanting to know,
wanting to disappear.
Originally published in Presence (Volume 20.4, 2014).
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