The Way Down

The Mountain in my Mind

What is the opposite of wind?
A vacuum’s suck, a glueing in
the hearth of earth, the cloy of
being buried by your own moods.

I wait in the foothills and I watch
climbers heft their equipment up
my mountain, all ascent and focus
their sounds as annoying as drills.

Silence returns, faithful as dogs
I unfurl into it, dance my mute joy,
reclaim the blank canvass of my ears,
yet I still listen, for a return.

It seems there's nothing, no noise at all,
no leaf twists in wind, no animal calls,
no human cheers itself with tinny sounds,
layers of silence crunch all the way down.

Does it wait to shake the nits from its scalp,
vomit its avalanches, spit its ice?
Will I roll down its rocks again,
punctured by my puerile retreat?

Something was stifled at my peak,
I can't see this spring day while,
the terrible blossoming happens,
over and over, inside my mind.