If we were never here
left no mark
And disappeared
How could they ever say
That we were wrong?
But are we songbirds
Whose tune will echo on
Heavy with the hope
That all we are
And all we were
Is never done?

My body is a rugged mountain pass
whose dangerous peaks and valleys
call out to the hubris of would be adventurers
with its hungry siren song.

Lovers have come the world over
with their maps, pickaxes, fire starters and rope.
Some brought tents intending to go the distance;
several with flags to stake their claim at the summit;
a few with pocket knives for carving their names.
All leaving trash on the trails as they went.

“Did I make you ***?”
they would ask believing in their foolish arrogance
that their movement and noise were really capable
of causing my avalanche.
Covered in the sweat of my labors in Sherpa-ing them to the peak
I whisper “Yes.”
Understanding in those moments that some things cannot be taught.

Only one ever came truly naked -without intention or ego.
The many times he found himself cresting my summit
it never occurred to him to pierce me with his pride
but instead he kissed the earth beneath him in gratitude.
He always moved through me as if he had gone this way his whole life
and yet still could get lost on the trails of a single limb.

He made himself an eager student of my skin
and produced waterfalls where before there had been none.
Singing songs into me as he studied my topography with adept fingers.
The echoes of which ring through me even now.
Never was he concerned with the ridges
for he being too preoccupied with the beauty of my slopes
thought of them only as trail markers.

The songbirds in the trees of me call always for him.
The animals of my wilds stay hungry as never before.
A small fire burns constantly for his return.

Unclothed.

The rain bird whistles in my ear
The boustrophedon melody fallowed loud and clear
Breach my windows and ruin my sleep
A ****** delight my eyes do weep
Cradle my head in wretched screams
Erase and memorize fallen dreams
Trapped in dusk my eye does wake
Migraines conjured will soon dissipate

As with all things
That object you hold
The song that you sing
Are connected in a web of meaning.

The 300 year-old tree was alive
When the doe lost her fawn to the hunter
When your ancestors spoke their native tongue
When the songbirds were blissfully unaware of their mortal song.
Unheard it was then, and now it is a legend.

And just as the sun rose
For one last songbird song
So will it set on you
For we know of our mortality all along.