The Mountain

In my dream, I married a mountain.

And sprouted up from its rocky terrain as grass and trees and wildflowers,

Contouring its stony face with sparkling waterfalls and trickling streams.

I was the flora and the fauna and the dirt.

I was the beautiful parts of earth – on the mountainside.

The birds, the insects, the goats, and the sheep;

I was the fish in the streams – the moss on the trees.

All sprouted from me –

and all for the love of the mountain.

The mountain gave little in return except the surface on which to grow,

And in my dream I grew weary of creating beauty alone.

The grass grew brown, the flowers wilted, and the animals grew hungry.

The mountain’s sorrow built and a storm brewed and lashed with heavy rains.

The mountain shook with great sobs and my land began to shift and slide.

Down – down – down the mountainside.

Buried in the mountain’s grief,

Concealed in soaking rubble,

A heap of beauty on the ground

Torn apart and strewn around.

That is until the storm clouds parted and the heavy rains ceased.

Quenched with sun and released from the mountain,

I gathered my debris.

My twigs, my leaves, my petals and seeds

My bones and blood and the survivors of the fall.

And reworked it all into something new.

And then I awoke to you.