The Mountain

The mountain is a hostage-taker.
By the time you reach the summit

it may already be too late.
When the path forks

follow the stones and the moss,
but listen to what the silence is telling you.

The mountain wears a collar of lace.
All those little bits of symmetry

snicked out so prettily
by the wind as it skins the lake.

The mountain is your mother and father
and their mothers and fathers

and all the ghosts
who have walked in its shadow.

The mountain smokes in the distance.
Tufts of cotton grass ignite in a ring

like votive candles being lit.
It will take you forever

to process what happens on the mountain.
The mountain is the dream you can’t catch,

the face in the water as you’re turning away.
The mountain is your fault line.

The mountain knows
it can bury you alive if it wants to.