Mountain Dao

Occaneechee Mountain, in Hillsborough, NC where I first spoke this poem

Up
     up to the mountain top,
this wild place of pine trees
and hickory oak.

Up
     up to the mountain top,
river valley spread out
from ancient mountain roots.

Wandering path along the ridge
hugs boulders cut by years of wisdom
while wizened trees hold on--
hold to that horizon,
allowing themselves to be bent and turned
where few can go.

Here, there is Grandfather
      and grandchildren,
Here, there is youth and old age,
saplings stretched green in the sun,
in search of wind, soil, light and rain,
six hundred million year old rock weathered by
volcano, glacier, flood and time.

The brown hare hops off into the distance,
leading the way
up
     up to the mountain top
as I leave behind human constructs and thoughts,
arising out of the dark valley
into pure white sun.

Even the salamander is out to
greet this day,
darting this way and that like
a snake's glinted tongue.
He knows the way,
up
    up to the mountain top.

A thousand generations
have passed this way,
and humans
       --almost none,
melting the mind
like snow into mountain,
bent and turned
along the edge of wilderness,
the Way the heart is weathered, 

sharpness smoothed down
by the river of yearning
a soft stone
dissolving
into sediment
leaving behind
soil
and the pure crystal peak
of mountain top being

I will follow and sing,
trusting in the wild ways
stepping closer
moment by moment
up
     up to the mountain top.