The mountains do not flinch
at what the world has done.
They hold their silence
in granite outcroppings—
scarred, still,
older than sorrow,
yet never indifferent to it.
She came to the ridge
where the cold wind weaves
between trees older than memory.
It touched her like a voice—
not kind,
not cruel,
just knowing.
And that knowing
wrapped around her ribs
like a truth she never chose to carry.
She stood beneath the pines,
her face turned to sky,
and the weight of it all
finally broke through—
tears carving warmth
into cheeks too long hardened.
Then her head
pressed to my chest—
as if to ask
if anything was strong enough
to stay.
And I knew.
I was built for this.
To stand right here.
To hold what broke her
and not let it fall further.
The wind moved on—
but something stayed:
a stillness
a hush
a warmth in the marrow
of what had once been frozen.
Not every wind will cut so cold.
Not every ache will hold.
And not everything un-beautiful
was meant to remain that way.
Tomorrow, the trees will still be here.
And the creek will still run clear.
But so will she—
with something inside
that now knows:
even the wounded
can become
the most beautiful thing
the mountains have ever seen.
The Black Hills are my home
I have friends here, past and present
I am grateful for the ones
I have known here
There is a place and time for everything..
even healing. from horrible, horrible things
❤️
