A Memory of Mountains


We used to be something.

I could’ve told you to the second from the shadow of a pine when the rain would come down
and in the winter, the light of the sun used to spill a red hail of ochre
she heard our conversations, and wanted to remind us that color hadn’t died with the shrub grass and cotton moths.

Wild flowers clung dried and buried in coyote fur. She sent those too.

We used to hear the whispers of Everest, a god in her own right, on tired winds
whose backs had been broken by the beat of a hummingbird wing
and the salt of several oceans.

I won’t lie to you, we weren’t that kind of something. But my god.
We were at least something.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s