I'm up on the mountain
when I was born,
where I touched the cheek of a quiet,
kindly God,
who painted the hills for my birthday
while I walked a low-standing
stone labyrinth with eyes for the center,
and none on return.
With the stone in my hand
I gazed at a summit silent
and prayed tell what yielded years
above the clouds and what had been
bestowed on the watcher of worlds.
What can you tell me?
Who have you seen in the garden below,
dancing on the hills,
skipping stones on the lake?
Do you remember me?
I passed under your eye
but once,
and a thousand times over
in the frayed leather ring
about a tiny cross.