May 08 | My father loved me (Poem)

My father was a mountain
and I a goat

neither speaking the same language
but aware
every path known, yet unstudied
simply etched
into the flesh
burned and bronzed
in yellow eyes

a goat loves her mountain:
she knows it chose to give her life
fresh lichen and bloody berries
spring up unbidden, and treasured for that

a goat loves her mountain:
a quiet companion to fears and tears
an open stage for dancing and laughter

a goat loves her mountain

but there are paths unwalked

vistas un-visioned
streams unseen
which water strange plants
both sour and sweet

deep wounds in fragile dirt
and stretches of virgin rock
that will still stand
untouched
when the sun runs down like a ragged fuse
and all things explode into naked nothing

my father was a mountain
and I a goat

I search simple stones
I pare perfect grass
I bleat into chasms

I hunt
for a hidden heart

-Clarity

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