rrodriguez

Atop the Mountain

When I walk on the mountain, I hear
The wind talk, see the clouds glow,
And smell the lull of the river current
Far below.

It mingles with the freshness
Of mountain scent—bathed in peace,
In the breeze that carries memories,
Longings, and grace.

Is that lonely tree I see delighted
With its many branches,
Each like a finger tickling the sky?

Are the clouds glad to caress the mountain
With gentle strokes?

Most people would not know,
Their lives too hurried and on the go.
I refuse to live in such confusion.

Too terrible it would be, to come down—
And see.