Mountain, sky and
windsong converge now

categorically confined
no more; treewind and

birdsong fill me in
a deluge of daylight calm,

pressed into the palms of
earthcrease like a branch

of time on the fortune of
its camber as we become the

hagiography of these
mountains singing,

Glistening among the
gleam of their own silence

in this palace, this crown of
healing as the canyon,

breath of my lungs,
inhales the story of aspen,

their history laid bare
by the aurorae of my own

a never-ending repose aside
these quiet hills I walk with you

© K. James Ribble

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