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You Are The Mountain

 At one end of the couch
you sit, mute as a pillow
tossed onto the upholstery.
I watch you sometimes when you don't know I'm watching and I see you.
Who you are.
You are a self made man.
Hard suffering.
You are grey stone and damp earth.
A long scar on a pale sky.
The television is tuned to CNN.
The world's tragedies flicker across your face like some foreign film.
You are expressionless.
Your usual gestures ground to salt.
How do you explain yourself to people that do not know you? How do you explain to them, this is me; that is not me.
However many words you choose in whatever context with whichever adjectives you use could not compare.
Even you describing you would not be you.
Not totally.
Your hands are folded together, resting in your lap.
I study those hands until every groove becomes familiar.
Like a favorite hat, you wear your silence comfortably.
I sometimes can not help but wonder what we will talk about if we ever run out of things to say.
You are the curve I burrow into.
The strength I borrow.
You are the red sun rising over the mountain.
You are the mountain.
© 2002 Lisa M.
Zaran All rights reserved.

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