The Calling

The trees are majestic, wise, whispering of wonders,

This is not my forest,

The river sings to salmon and poet ears alike,

This is not my river,

 

A mountain wiser than the blue sky of summer,

Is no longer my lode stone,

A damp granite cave dripping secrets,

Is no longer my music,

 

Bare foot hidden tracks in August  blackberries,

Do not stain my eager lips,

Bare breasts in fire lit, unfettered solitude,

Do not breathe cedar boughs,

 

I am listening to green tides of change on beaches,

Where sand is silken kisses,

I am swaying to night drums in the jungle,

Where songs are unwritten,

 

Eyes behold a grandeur of Cascade implacability,

While geckos laugh at me,

Eyes appraising heaven through pine curtains,

While a soul is sailing.

 

 

 

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