the mountain speaks without words;
it knows no language,
speaks with silence,
with majesty,
with mystery.
we did not learn the language of the mountain,
we unlearned the language
we became mute,
the mountain spoke no more.
the mountain does not understand or acknowledge time,
it knows nothing of the days or the weeks,
it cares little for the years or the seasons,
it does not shrug off these notions,
it merely speaks not,
for even to ignore is an act beyond the mountain,
the mountain is.
our passing is in scars and dislocation,
the vanity of reposition measured in the unknown language,
the secret language of meanness,
the sharp language of the axe and fire,
the temporary language of heroes,
we seek to break that which can not be broken,
to change that which is constant change,
to preserve in blindness a picture we have no eyes to see,
to hear without ears the songs of ageless silence,
we scream from insignificance
our glories, our trespass,
the wondrous inadequacies of the meanness of our spirit,
"look at us, for we have forgotten the way,
we have forgotten the path,
look at us.
we are lost."
a man comes to the mountain with a saw,
with an axe,
the shears of a plough dragging up stones that the frost throws,
craving images of agriculture to be swept aside by drought or rain,
by large grasshoppers and mice,
to be swept aside by moss and mildew,
he cries defeated to the ice cold stars whose blind sight see only the mountain,
not the man.
all of creation is deaf to those who speak no language,
the head of the axe rusts mute with man’s frustrations,
the brief sound of thunder,
his mighty locomotive as he departs,
is a burble.
the fallen trees rise once more,
they stretch out their limbs into the night,
stretching to grasp the sky,
as the mountain sing in silence to the stars.
with our feet we ran through the fern’s green canopy over the shards and rocks,
across the hard stalks and soft grasses,
with out feet we ran the path hidden in the ferns,
across meadows to climb above the lake,
above the ferns,
above the granite and the grass into the arms of the mountain,
into the breath of the humid mountain,
into the arms of our mythology we ran,
behind the blue glistening waters,
behind the trees whispers and laughter,
behind, staggering and small, we left childhood.
from the ground they rise in mists and shadows,
on the wind they speak in whispers and shades of words,
calling ever further, murmuring the forgotten names,
the forbidden names
the names that twist and torment the tongue,
the names that pierce,
hawk names of screech and cries,
the names of murder
stretching out between the breasts of the mountains,
enticing, inviting hidden promises,
the cool wet darkness,
a reflection of a memory,
the reflection of a vision,
a reflection of the water dazzled in the sunning,
our eyes were open and saw the illusion,
we walked into the illusion,
proud and tall we walked over the mountains and left childhood,
walking over the illusion,
over the reflection into the warm humid stretch between the breasts of the mountain…
we left our childhood behind and stepped, lost, into the illusion.
we step into candle wax,
into the incense,
out of the light,
away from the creation,
we step in numbers,
a dawdling lingering slow motion,
the transfiguration in molten wax,
in the dust,
in the heat,
eyes of the old and the young,
the summer banished from this tomb of stories,
the language of shagging, encounters,
the unknown mysteries surrendered to the middle aged lost on boats,
on lawn chairs,
dragged to the edge of an illusion,
a mystical dream,
a solemn point at the edge,
the wax flows along the edge where the language stops,
where the language slows to a crawl,
at the edge,
a precipice,
gazing eyes staring into the silence of time,
the dust and wind dances to the unknown music.
the man returns,
the man is old,
he is gnarled and knotted like the trees,
he is reaching as if his arms were boughs,
wavering in the sunlight grasping for,
he is grasping at the solidity of the rocks,
the solidity of the change,
his eyes squinting into the brightness of the star,
he is remembering,
the chips and trails carved into trees,
the gentle slope of the run off,
the jagged confusion that is order,
from his tree-like stance he is the memory remembering,
he is the at the edge,
on the precipice of time itself,
gazing into the dust and the wind in reverent remembrance,
the man is old on the bark but the stem of youth rises,
the sap running of the spring,
rising within to ooze forth in tears as he gazes into the light of his remembering,
the transfiguration of time,
the gnarled wax slowed and frozen in declination,
held upon the edge,
clinging to the precipice,
waiting with saintly patience
time itself has changed.
the lanterns sing with the hiss of gas,
they burn in the language of science,
light is a force of aggression pushing at the edge of the darkness,
light creates the perimeter,
the precipice, the boundary.
light burns with the secret language,
the lantern sings in the secret language
and they come, the memory of the forest,
the answer of the trees,
the mountains stirs to the call
answers while around the fire,
with a slap of flesh on flesh,
we forget the language,
we forget the song,
we forget that we have called.
a fire burns to ash,
is consumed into the song of the flames,
snaps and cracks,
sings in the secret language,
the glowing embers dance the ballet of silence,
glow with the breath of ancient patterns,
they speak the forgotten language,
speak the words that can be seen into the emptiness of the forgotten,
the void is the failure of the memory,
the void is for the youth,
the beginning,
it is the birth, and the birth remembered,
it is death, the void is for the old,
it is for the passing,
the crossing over,
for the ashes and he comes,
the old man comes to speak to the fire,
to speak to the wind,
to speak to the trees and the mountain,
the old man comes to speak in the forgotten language with his eyes burning like a lantern,
burning like a fire,
the ash and the embers,
he comes to speak with the patience of understanding,
the old man comes to the mountain
and the mountain comes for him.
