Poetry

Edges and acorns

The mountain doesn’t look like a mountain

when it’s all painted up with leaves and acorns

and leftover drops of sun.

It’s more an artwork on canvas,

something that I can appreciate but not feel squashed by.

It’s when it’s stark and white,

only its sharpness and jagged edges to display

that my head decides to landslide

and any progress I’ve made

erases itself until

the next leaf fall.

Poetry

Far Above The Clouds

The man uncurled his fingers and looked at his palms.

Bells. There were bells, tubular ones

resting there, instead of his bag of secrets.

The rain still poured down on the mountainside,

yet the clouds were below him, not above.

His hand twitched, and he fell forwards

into the long grasses, through soil and rock

until he could not be told apart from it all.

The bells clattered to the ground, ringing

out for the valley to hear. The rain

stopped at the sound of those bells.

Those tubular bells igniting the day.