The Mountains are Dancing

His voice seems to come from the earth itself,

ancient Appalachian wisdom

harvested—not mined: no pickaxe

wielded to create new fissures and scars;

instead, something more gentle, a mountain

spring of knowledge and knowing flowing downhill

into the piedmont through your footfalls, whispering,

this is true, your blood knows it, too,

Certain assertions, a chilling balm penetrating the skin holding it together:

The old gods are not dead;

you are not dead, though your grave waits for you, hungry

as the ravenous fools who would lock your spirit in a box

claiming and proclaiming victory

that never belonged to them.

Oblivious to the voice growing from the earth

into the sky, breathing cedar and pine, branching out,

The ruby heart not yet hardened, the soft, pulpy wood still pliant,

photosynthesis working magic everyday, swaying branches and dancing leaves

remembering and honoring their roots in every fresh green breath, every dapple of

light on the forest path, the mosaic of leaves returned to earth,

the art of the trample

feeling the forest breathe, climbing, always climbing the unforgiving slope

into the sky, finding a vantage point instead of a precipice,

the mountain within somehow greater than the one climbed, dwarfing

the rest of the world, echoing, reverberating, insisting,

yes, you: you have been called to this task, this body so great

the edges are invisible, the secret staircase carved into the path your feet follow.

The shadow of the red rock shall not claim you, though dust

you shall eventually become. The water will not hide its source;

there is no landlord, no marshal to evict you,

no bailiff to monitor you,

nor bondsman to liberate you—

You are your own judge, your leaves your jury.

This place, this knowledge is engraved in your bones

and knows you are of it, the honor beats through you stronger than your pulse

This rhythm knows itself, recognizes itself inside you,

speaks with the tongues of ancestors through memory and desire,

anointing you, a disciple of truth enduring steadily through every betrayal,

rising like thermals wheeling hawks through the sky.

In honor of Tim Carmichael for his birthday