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Poet of the Mountain
He had a mountain in his heart
from the womb through ensuing days
with its craggy sides against his ribs,
its wild lions roaring in his bold spirit,
the taste of adrenalin in his mouth,
his blood surging throughout his being,
the clean air circulating through his lungs,
his dreams running up to the summit,
playing with the wolves and bears,
basking in the sun in the quiet days,
and fighting with the wind in the storm,
holding onto unsteady trees,
flirting with life and death all his days
with his eyes on the summit
and his steady feet in the climb,
each day becoming more real,
smelling the snows and the pure air
until the smelling became the tasting.
Then the day of action dawned upon him
when the dreams became real,
when he found himself climbing,
when his feet began their tiring,
his endurance and faith being tested,
his breath shortened from the thin air,
his visions of the summit fading,
reaching down into his soul,
ready to give up but can’t.
His spirit won’t let him.
Alas the summit is here,
poking its head high into the clouds,
high up from the shrunken valleys below,
looking up into the realm of the almighty,
where thoughts become more pure,
where the shadows follow the sun,
where earth’s secrets unveil themselves,
and exotic words enter into his mind,
as the poet stands above with the mountain
still in his heart, the world in his hands,
and the unknown that became the known.
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