Mountain Dao

Up to the mountain top,
this wild place of
pine trees and
hickory oak.

Up to the mountain top,
river valley spread
out from ancient
mountain roots
like children behind their mother’s skirt.

Wandering path along the ridge,
hugging boulders cut by years.

Wisdom trees hold on,
hold onto the horizon,
let themselves be bent and turned
where few can go.

Here, there is Grandfather
and grandchildren,
Here, there is youth and old age,
sapling stretched green in the sun,
searching wind, soil, light and rain.
six hundred million year old rock weathered by
volcano, ice age, flood and time.

The brown hare hops off into the distance,
leading the way
up to the mountain top

as I leave behind human constructs and thoughts,
arising out of the dark valley
sleep
into pure white sunlight.

Even the salamander is out to
greet this day,
darting this way and that like
a snake’s glinted tongue.
He knows the way,
up to the mountain top.

A thousand generations
have passed this way,
and humans,
almost none

melting the mind
like snow into mountain,
bent and turned
along the edges of wilderness,
the Way the heart is weathered,
sharpness smoothed away
by the river of yearning,
a soft stone
dissolving
into sediment
leaving behind
soil
and the pure crystal peak
of mountain top being.

I will follow and sing,
trusting in the wild ways
stepping closer
moment by moment
up

up to the mountain top.