The Mountain Knows

The trail ascends

through thinning air,

where breath becomes

a precious thing.

My legs protest

with burning fire,

my lungs demand

that I turn back.

The summit hides

behind the clouds,

invisible

and maybe myth.

Each step feels like

a small rebellion,

against the voice

that says retreat.

The mountain doesn't

care I'm climbing,

doesn't notice

if I fall.

It simply stands

in ancient patience,

existing long

before my doubt.

I rest on stones

that witnessed centuries,

that held the weight

of countless seekers.

The path ahead

grows steeper still,

more difficult

than I imagined.

But something shifts

inside the struggle,

a quiet knowing

I am changing.

Not from reaching

some grand summit,

but from choosing

steps at all.

The mountain teaches

without speaking,

that elevation

comes through effort.

That views are earned

by those who suffer,

who push through pain

to find the peak.

I climb not for

the destination,

but for the person

who arrives.