As Earth groans and shivers
I observe Mountain grow taller;
the childbearing summit,
too many spines to count in a single lifetime,
she sees me. So small below.
She gathers Wind and bids him
go to me.
He whistles through my hair, disrupting cyclical thoughts,
for a spell, with gusts of play,
then rises and rejoins her.
She invites Sunlight in for tea
and lets him linger.

I look upon them, longing to join;
but I am not invited.
That sort of warmth looks reserved
for the unapologetic. The ones without
tortoise shell homes.
I am the shell I’ve decorated
so carefully,
layering bits of rock and mud and
glistening crystal tears.
I’m so damn proud of it
it makes me weep, bright
fluorescence spills out of me
I jail myself and
blame the tulips.

I gaze at her,
her messenger rousing her children,
shaking out dust and coals.
She smiles, illuminated by kind sun,
and casts out past horizons
and slowly sinking earth.

It grows difficult to house
all the crystal tears,
and I worry they’ll shatter
and gut me.
I care too much about the carpet.
My circulatory system is toxic with human extract,
condensed years of forefather desperation,
undiluted overwhelm.
I wonder out loud
if I’ll make it to just whelmed, one day, just whelmed enough
to stay insane.

I wonder out loud.
I wonder out
I start
gathering my voice
the ragged bits of
cords left,
I am
screaming, and
flailing and running
around your base
I envy you!
I envy you!
I envy you!
So resolute and raw
I can see the veins within you,
you are exposed but stand straight
you let it touch you and shake beneath you
and you rise, rise, rise stronger, taller, straighter!

teach me to be the wind!
to stop my cyclical thoughts
to be the sun!
to linger longer within myself
lend me your hammer and
tell me how you grow so many spines!
I don’t want to count myself so often
I don’t want to apologize
so often I don’t want to bow
so often.

I want to join you
I want
to be invited.

I peep my eyes out of
the sheath of my fingers and see
she’s still smiling.
Still smiling strong above me.
I wonder
what I am to her. If I am to her
the weak ant in the colony.

But she sees me.
so small below.
She calls to the wind
and gathers him in her arms,
bids him go to me.

He comes, whistles through my hair,
and I hear, so
so quiet
a heartbeat:

Faith is not reserved
for the deities.

2 Comments on “Mountain Grows Taller

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