at the root of the mountain
a heart sleeps
and beats in percussive dream
the blood a river
sown to flow and feed
the mighty things
that make earth rise
and green, and when time
slides and wears its skin
to file down the thoughts
within, the muscle stirs
and reaches deep
to find some warmth in fire
beneath and
reaches high to drink the sky
where waters rain and thirst
reclines, the breeze is
but a whisper nigh to hold
the rock in tenders steeped
against the flood and tempest long
against the dusty drought
that dries its heavy song
but still the voice creeps up
and down, ever buckling
in the slope and heaving
to give sound to vein and seep
where minerals grow and fungal
floral faunal life begins to breathe
and open eyes and hands
and leaves and throw their spores
and seeds from burrow’s grove
to lofty scapes shaped to mold
in mundane verse
and notes untold.