backside of my mountain

i’ve never seen the backside of

my mountain. the valley is steep

and a river runs swift. the branches

of ash are crumbling and they impede

my ramblings. the echo of a train is

far faraway. on the meridian of my

mountain i can see hundreds of miles,

and below i hear dogs barking at

unwanted intruders. no one can see

me, and no one can find me. my

spirit is as naked as my cultivated flesh.

the breeze in the trees sings like an

emmylou song and creatures surround

me with a quiet life mantra. here i can

breathe in the fragrance of pines, and

the aroma of sweet grass. ferns have

found the sun to dry dew on their

fronds, they have no flower or seed

to cause them worry. at the crest of

this mountain are the gates of heaven,

and beyond that a never-ending

vastness of naught. the sounds of

my past have all been extinguished.

i am free to be simple, and a

depleted soul so high.

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