*The frost that forms on trees along mountain ridges is rime.
14 Syllables per line. "My mountain is calling, I must go." John Muir
My heart strokes the strings of memories, utterly sublime. Alpine trees echo enticing chants to welcome me there. Whirling in spirited hurry, now free from all worry. Anticipation is engrossing my mind, before time. There is magnetism in the alp's compassionate embrace. I am bound for paradise, such a splendid upward climb. Wanderlust cured, no more will I roam from my mountain home. The alps bringing peace and security, as church bells chime. Exiled no more, I return to breathe each breath of fresh air. Now free from all worry, whirling in spirited hurry. Blessed by God, I'm back to my mountain home with snow and rime.*
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
