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.


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