07: The Walk

Even the mountain is faced with erosion,

          - every rock redoes its face, anew, appliqué into thin air.

An aged cadence knocks; a mystery poem

laced through woods, looked for, never seen

         - flies away too.

A circle of conifers, where she lay down, nested,

shared it;

their roots through earth - powdered ash from lightning -

wrapped around and grown through

us; we can feel them burnt alive, beneath

magnificent energy

quietly works

our soul, in delicate lace,

intricately worded - the mountain's face -

through one another,

accreted to the system

quietly,

as we walk by,

         a red bloom,

a burning bush converses;

rushing and deepening,

under our feet:

naked stone - nothing to report