Monday, March 29, 2010
Mineral King Backpack
I go to the Mountain
I go to the mountain for air,
Ghostly breathless, climbing each stair.
Ahead, or behind the vision’s so clear,
But each step is imprinted, dusting the air.
The pain of ascent wracks every ribcage
Setting a pace, atmospherically engaged.
Restful alpine carpets off-trail,
Surprises of buckwheat, sage, cilantro to inhale.
Jeweled, ethereal, silver-orb strands
Stream down waterfalls through my hands,
Into snow-fed, icy, ripple-mirrored lakes
Of moonlight, granite, countless fish-wakes.
Wind carries the waterfall’s rush
Conjuring a sleeper’s hush,
To reawaken with a gusting slap
Against the cozy tent-fly flap.
Pushing through the dustless pass
Songs of mosquito, wolf and grouse,
across treeless peaks.
I came to the mountain for air,
And carry it in my chest,
A molecule, a pulse,
A place to breathe,
A place to rest.