Pine needles cover the ground,Life chirps and peeps from cracks in the Earth.These mountains rise high,Scraping space.Lizards and bugs infest the leaning trees,The elder branches of the oak,Fir,And birchWave their spidery fingers at the skyAs if waiting for an answer to a prayer.Paths twirl and unfold like ribbons,Tracing the past generations’ steps to the peak.Clouds encircle the summit as if dancing.Markers are set to tell you that many peopleHave been here to rise above.Trees make a thin blanket against the buffeting windsThat scour everythingAnd withdraw suddenly.

An old house at the back of the mountain

Gives you a personal secret

You keep to yourself.

Your ancestors scaled it.You want to follow their invisible ghosts up to the topAnd see the valley spread out like a patchwork quilt,And a feeling of big/small makes you wantTo become part of the mountain yourself,To become one with the wind and trees and birdsAnd stories that the locals tell.You want them to surround youAnd enclose you.The footprints that have faded leave their story,The birds have an article that they will share,The trees have old legendsOf kings and queens and knights,The ground has an accountOf the gossip passed by the people of the mountain.You want to call this home.