The great rock god Of the mountains sleeps with one eye open to catch eagles and elk, wind and rainbows, the strong of limb who climb those peaks because a mountain lives inside them. Mountains that are looked at look back with the pleasure of old women locked in a gaze of new admirers, so glad for attention, so wary of strangers. Mountains That are looked at increase in beauty from so much looking and live on in memory long after we are gone from them, remembering the hint of immortality there and the way We were possessed by rock. Mountains that are looked at look back with authority and the promise of tomorrow, which is why some people die for them. November's great path of the moon is mortality.
Mortality is the recognition of each day's purpose.
The soul's Migration between the old place and the new means that you must recognize your path to an unknown destination, risking all with the chance of gaining nothing. You are merely The connection between growth and suffocation, the link that joins possibility to pain, and thus you become the keeper of your own flame. Going from this place to another place is like the bird in winter who remembers the beauty of her springtime nest just to keep herself from freezing. When I look at you now in winter, I do not see the lines upon your face or the whiteness of your hair. The burden of living so full a life is reflected In your eyes, into which I alone bring light each time I say, thank you for your precious gifts, so rich, so rare I never noticed where Springtime went, only that I spent each season here, alive with you.