I am not the mountain
I need plank – this from the one who cannot take a hammer
to nails when depression closes in.
yet people come, people talk to me.
This one gives back her hand and whispers:
I listen to no music when I sing.
I am high country, yes — but without vistas —
She nods her head. Today she wants to understand
he doesn’t believe in bridges anymore.
slopes of white bark, pine beetles setting in.
I’d rather there be real bees the aspen tells
the river and the river tells
the mountain. And the mountain turns to me.