To find the top of a mountain, look around; whichever
way is up is the way you go, and if you get lost, look again.
When you get to the top and you've looked down into the mist,
sit down and drink a long draught of water and breathe.
When it's time to go back, and you have what you came for:
the wisdom, the moment to stand just underneath
the trap door to the rest of the sky and wonder about God.
It's time to bring it back down. But you slept here and now
you don't remember which way you came, every way is down.
Your fire is smoldering at camp by the river and your friends
miss you. Pick a direction, one that looks familiar, and walk.
Whatever you found on top of the mountain will start
to talk back as soon as you stop recognizing your surroundings.
Keep going. That voice is all you have now.
I'm back to writing a poem every day, whether they stink or not.
Monday, March 20, 2006
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- Fragile
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- Leaving the Woods Behind
- Coming Down (As requested by Aurora)
- This is not a poem (2)
- Evidence
- The Cello Player
- Turning Point
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- A Mystery
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