Top of the Chair
My mountain place beneath the storm,
a home to spirits from long ago,
the place where floating clouds are born
and look below.
The voice of Man cannot compare
to solemn songs of mountain breeze
where I sit in deepest prayer
while spirits tease.
In silence, they overcome me,
in hazy gasps of living breath.
Released, my soul is ever free
and fears no death.
The view of nature’s love surrounds
and modern days just fade away.
Upon her peaks and hallowed grounds
I see gods play.