The Mountain

Poetry by Genevieve H

This piece appears in Vol 2: Making Meaning from Spill Your Dreams, a collective publishing group. Experience the inspiration session that led to its creation.

Photo credit: Arnie Chou

by genevieve h

When I was young
the mountain called
to me
I heard my name
in birdsong
and on the
steady breeze
while beetles crept
from that mossy
undergrowth
by the river where
the turtle
met the hare
and where schools
of fish led by a
gentle current
were carried
out to sea
each bubble
a tender kiss
for deer to muzzle
I, so young and
clumsy
but with no one
around to see
was free
to check each
nook and cranny
in the thick trunks
of every tree
I carved
an invisible path through
this forest I was sure
was made for me
lungs bursting with
sweet, clean air
and lips spread wide
in sheer delight
complete confidence
in my own
right to pick
a sticky berry
and adorn myself
with daisies
and little did I know
that wending through
the trees
the squirrel and the fox
took turns watching
over me
bare footsteps
sometimes lost but
treading with no fear
muffled by
the soft soil and
silent
if you don’t know
how to listen
which somehow those
who make decisions
never do,
whispering of the
gods who once
lived on the mountain
but whom
they think
they’ve never seen
I, so young
did not have the words
to say I saw them
sleeping
in the canopy
and soon I won’t
remember
that once
I did, too.