where the mountains are drawn imperfectly
against the sky, retched up into the skyline like
little boys bullying, flushed with triumph
in the morning glow, where the steep slopes meet
in sharp limestone valleys, this is where
I will, coming and going, meet myself

in this safe, sharp place I put hands
on the layered shale, the bright lime, the crests
of valley floor that shoulder their way up
toward the heights, left behind in their
seismic attempts; some of us are not meant
to flirt with that blue expanse, my love

deep in the valleys the water runs
slow and sluggish through paths carved
millennia ago, winding among tall pines and
deep golden beds of scattered needles; this
is where I will lay myself, tired of travel,
aching from lack of oxygen on the peaks.