The old grey mountains outside Live inside our bones Where the heart swells in its home And the wild smell of earth Comes to coat your nose like a light stint of rainfall on the mountain trail road
You do not belong there Tucked away inside your Painted box of wood All your senses locked in their quiet Obfuscation - your mortal eyes Trapped in the long line of stop lights Under these towers made of glass where the worried heart forgets its real nature
John Muir says the mountains Are calling and I must go. The journey begins where the road ends: This smell of earth lives Inside the codons in our genes It makes the lungs swell with air It lives inside the electric current In the apex fibers of the heart muscle
You do not belong there. The mother talks to you in turbid dreams That leave a sheen of sweat on your skin And a roll of blankets lie covered in your water made of fear This mountain calls - it speaks - This is God’s country: Where the old rainfall left a mud trail Where the birds take to the mountain breeze Like little autumn leaves - elevation gaining And the great cliffs drop away in their vertiginous longing for the mother dirt
How long will you stay in your temple of occlusion? The cold air outside enlivens the bleating heart strings And the skin bristles in its gooseflesh When the golden protuberance of sunlight Touches down upon its surface And this case of bone becomes alive again Walk from your cage, your dying body These trails have written your name In the mud Where the paved road ends And the rocks of gravel start to grip Under your toes.