wyoming spring
is like a campfire

the sun's beautiful light
burns your face

while the constant wind
freezes the shadows

happy mediums
are for other lands

the mountain speaks
of being anchored
by roots so deep they burn

and this ancient wisdom
is reiterated by tree limbs
groaning against the wind

but light-hearted crows
taunt the stagnant below
as they surf the invisible tide

and having ascended
the golden eagle sees all
in the light of the setting sun

and I find myself torn
between being rock steady
and living while i'm alive

this daily death
and nightly rebirth
these swelling buds
and falling leaves
this piling snow
and torrential flow

this in- and ex- halation

this building warmth
and inertia of cold
this body grows
and then it grows old
this rhythm of life
and imminent death

pervades everything i see
so, could it be
that, perhaps, this rhythm is me

as i scale this mountain
i feel like i belong
and though i feel invited
drawn by the wind’s song
the pungent scent of sage
on the springtime breeze
tells me to tread lightly
for i am only visiting