In the mist at daybeak:
Ghost of whitened
mountain
Climbs thunderclouds.
Under eaves,
through slow rain spatter,
Small bats chase,
wings squeeking.
Still is the air.
We tumble
and totter
through space.
—
We are now such
A tower of cloud
And rain.
A roar,
A drumroll,
A whisper,
Percussed silence.
Leaving glistening
Green skin:
This world.
—
As she sleeps
I find her slopes
And gullies.
I love the
Familiar folds.
A rising mountain
I become
And she,
The deep greens
And valley dark.
No distinction:
One rising breath,
One landscape.
We, a loved land
Clouded and clear.
—
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simonhlilly 