The Mountain keeps all secrets. Crusted lichen on timeworn boulders. High altitude longing for alpine daisies. Carefree blossoms, long ago plucked, gone to seed, restless in the fertile ground.  Wildflowers bloom shortly sweet, fleeting paintbrush to layered canvas. Fairy slippers lost on crumbling doorsteps. Glacier lilies pressed between avalanched pages.  Forget-me-nots in forgotten blue hollows. The common harebell feels anything but common when seen through a lover's eyes. Forest tiger, your bulbs taste bitter. Purple lupines sage with fuzzy-leafed logic.  Fireweed, *****, unadorned, eternally reaching. Lousewort, spreading phlox, leave this scarlet alone.  Listen to Indian Henry, it's bad luck to trample what is sacred. The devil dreams behind steep and sheltered walls. Keep to the Wonderland, bypass this Trail of Shadows.  Seek ancient hunting grounds, steadfast shelter in the wooded clearing.  There is no pearly everlasting along these old trails.  Paradise lost may never be regained.

Each day to live as though a last
sounds a crystal wind chime's blast

Moments, atom grains of silica and lead
melt into hour's memories bliss bled

Humbled into submissive psalms of love
dragging homeward bound this bag of bones

Alone, only in this day of next reflect
how imposing polished this mirror's affect

Soon to lay among stars and worms
perchance to dream a rooster's morning turn

-cec

Down by the sea
where the marram grass grows
there's a ******* the beach
in a rusting boat
with a tablecloth sail
and it's rudder broke
and her eyes are an ocean wide..

...a gentle wind rustles through the trees, bringing a slight shift in her perspective
...maybe her heart wasn't so hardened.

...the dull hum of the distant traffic bringing her to focus,
...maybe there was a bit of wild still left in her

She breaths in deep and steps softly into liberation.

Hard to say
where it begins.
A snowflake,
a step,
a voice...
too soft,
too small
for most
to notice.
One memory
cascades gently into
another, tumbling visions,
recherches du temps passe.
Gaining mass and momentum,
they still look beautiful and innocuous
from a distance, until you observe the trees
and boulders swept up into the blinding current

and it's upon you

and it fills your eyes your lungs
with suffocating whiteness
tossed about head over elbow
muffled tears on the desk

and if you're lucky

when the onslaught stops
you can dig out an air pocket
take a breath
burrow to the surface
and go on with your day.

I once worked the sign
at the intersection
of Facebook and HelloPoetry.
All those years when
secure in my job,
flush with cash,
I'd not meet the eyes
of those who muttered
"thank you, sir"
on those rare occasions
when a crumpled dollar
fell from my hand into theirs.
So I now tell on myself
to bleed the shame
from the arrogance,
never knowing the courage
it takes to look the privileged
in the eyes and ask for help
until I stood on the corner
clothed only in my naked need.