The wind moves across the ridges
like a memory I almost remember.
Stone waits, patient, unchanging,
and I watch the sun spill gold
over the quiet bones of the earth.
I have walked this path before,
though no one else has seen it,
and the trees whisper my name
in syllables I cannot speak.
Time gathers in the hollows,
thick as fog,
and I hold it gently,
knowing some things are meant
to pass through without leaving.
Alone, yes,
but never lonely
the mountains keep their counsel,
and I, in their shadow,
learn what it means
to endure,
to remember,
to be still.