Mountain Speaks

A Matt Calliri Contest: Are You A Mouse or A Mountain 18 June 24 -------- Comes the morning fog sprawling on my territory where northern glens dry from rotten stubble and mess of debris... damp damp. Above, waterfalls tumble with litter, splinters of broken glass flushing ashed moisture 'round lakes: how truant seasons' passages rip this my velvety robe... I recoil to whisper Am I growing older than I should? Along my tired arms, maples which once stood guard now unbutton pistil and stamen of flowers, pillaged by unwanted ravens. Sunray breaks... these dim eyes watch how moss of layered mist covers my earthen soil wasted along paths of disheveled rocks. Under my keep, wrestling with predators bear wounds, scars this body tries to heal. My voice trembles to speak, Men-holes, do you come from a heritage of thieves, of beasts? No one answers : like so, I trace my own life-stretch , reflecting on the snuff of earth's glory. Down my mottled chest, I fondle the awakening of infant grass --all plump and fertile -- A promise within the cavity of time...that an intercepted light of next interlude could rise, where man and my nature- self greet, not until not until...