you’ll always be my mountain.

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 I am noticed in the parts, described without description and identified without identity. A mirror image of truth I seek, and its perfection alight. Mountain after mountain— and I have not reached.

But I shun it all aside. On this mountain I’m so alone in the illusion that this traversing is one of solitude and separation. How much I need you..


This heart dies when your voice fades and I forget the fine lines of your face. This loving greenness in my chest dies down when you’re not dwelling there in its meadows, watching you while you lie, restful and at ease.


My sun has set and I’m lifeless in my weakness. How this brokenness fills me with a humble beginning to keep turning towards you to get a glimpse of meaning for this life. You are the face of love, of service, of dissolution towards an intention to transform this ground— to leave it golden with the rivers that rippled us here.


And without this dream, I’m left in my circles of what’s inscrutable, the secrets, the darkness that continue to have no opposite when I’m in dreamless solitude.


I’m a winter now; barren and empty in my nothingness. I miss you. I miss your sun. How ungrateful I am left without the imagined spring. 


I hold out my hand, patience running dry on this peak. Mountains in aloneness and I recognise— you’ll always be my mountain. My only mountain.


Does it mean the same for you, my dear?

going with grace in an inscrutable world.

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