The Mountain Breath

The Mountain’s Breath ​The mist rolls down in heavy velvet sleeves, To brush the sleeping faces of the leaves. The creek is busy stitching stone to stone, With silver thread and music of its own. ​A cedar stands in ancient, mossy green, The quiet witness to the worlds between— Where sunlight breaks in splinters on the floor, And shadows pool like water at the door. ​The wind doesn't ask the valley where to blow, The river doesn't teach the fish to go; They move as one, a clock without a gear, The oldest rhythm that the heart can hear.