OfTheMountain

Of ivory, rose and lace,
no, a summer wind,
faint orange trace
the down of gaggling gosling,
sunrises lavender
the dark purple shores,
high swing grace
of circling hawk,
fresh breeze carries
pine seed needles,
slow glide side to side
of greened speckled trout,
in azure waters creamed
across lincoln moss stones,
the wind swaying branches
sprinkling leaves to patter;
in patterns unknowable,
and yet with some logic,
the slopes drop smoothly
despite the planted rocks,
to meadows frolicked in blooms
of colors uncounted in
the green mantle of brushing
grass and bramble mounds
that carry sweetness of fruit.

Thus you are the mountain,
the creatures of the forest,
the air I breathe, my own graceless test
of very love, and now may I rest.

� 2000 DPMcClellan