She saw a flower, sensitive plant of my garden
She saw a flower, sensitive plant of my garden
it was the warmest, sunniest morning
it was the warmest, sunniest morning
Warmest of garden, it saw a flower in the morning
sensitive, she was my sunniest plant


The wind is blowing from west over the river
The wind is blowing from west over the river
The sky turns dark above the mountains
The sky turns dark above the mountains
The west wind turns, is blowing over the mountains
From the river above the dark sky


The city far away, the buildings tall
The city far away, the buildings tall
Disguise the green fields beyond the crowds
Disguise the green fields beyond the crowds
The tall fields, the green buildings
Disguise the crowds beyond the far away city                                  


The tall mountains, the fields, the sky above                              
saw a disguise of crowds over city buildings                                                        ­                
my morning, it was the sunniest beyond the west                                                             ­             
The green river she turns dark                                                             ­                               
The warmest wind is blowing from far away                      
Plant the sensitive flower in the garden

She writes to him in the hospice,
his widow-in-waiting.  A girl at her care home
brings her envelopes, colourful pens, sheets of paper in
pastel shades, and takes her missives to
Reception to go out with the mail.
She writes to him, keeping her messages short so
the nurses have time to read them to him, and because
he gets tired so quickly now.
She encloses copy photographs for the nurses to
show to him, pictures of their adventures together:
them in hiking boots and toting backpacks atop a
Saxon burial mound; picnicking and almost sunburnt
beside a vast lake reflecting a perfect, bygone blue sky
in its tranquil surface; on a sandy Welsh beach, building a
campfire from smooth, soft-grained, bone-pale driftwood; him
asleep on a train, his head resting on luggage
and hat pulled down over eyes.
In one communiqué she writes:
“I’m sorry you took the mountains with you.”
She means – she explains to the care home girl
who brings her stationery and takes her mail – that
when he moved to the hospice and she to the care home,
all the photos of their mountain holidays – the Vogelsberg,
the Dolomites, Monte Rosa, Chamonix – had been
packed up along with his possessions, and put in storage
by his family.  She sends him copies of
the only photos she has left.
And that is what she means, but not just that.
It’s been a long time since she stomped mud off of
hiking boots, or felt that gorgeous ache in her muscles
from a long, hard climb, or kissed in a cable-car,
or let the wind tan her face as she breathed
rarefied air.  Those summits seem very far away,
and the woman who once scaled them never could have dreamed
that life could become so flattened.

In some quiet room, a nurse shows him the photographs.  
A heart monitor describes
a craggy range of peaks and dips; each elevation, every ascent,
could be a terminal journey.  Soon, one surely will.
The nurse can’t tell if he hears her as she reads to him,
“I’m sorry you took the mountains with you.”

I sat in silence yet nature was singing
With different hues of the sky so blue illuminating
the evergreens and aspen trees
I don't know exactly what it means to me
But I know it's something special
and deep
Life's about seeing beauty in the little things


These mountains, they're wise
They're lonely but they listen
Take a walk outside with them
And you'll find
that they'll take you
far deeper within

Stars that glimmer in a velvet sky,
sprinkles of colour dotting spring trees,
rivers galloping down mountainsides,
endless open stretches that beg to be run across with wild abandon,
heavy air hanging amidst thick trees, which shelter unseen creatures mere feet away,
infinite, firm, immovable ranges topped with glittering snow,
sun-streaked and sparkling oceans, smoothly beckoning or foaming with reckless passion.

When did we start shuttering our wide eyes,
closing out all but thin strips of our world’s breathtaking beauty?
How can anyone bear to be so readily sightless of this magnificence?
Maybe if we threw open the blinds
and bathed in the artistry of our Earth,
we wouldn’t be so irresponsible with it,
wouldn’t allow ourselves to be complicit in its devastation.

I want to write of nature.
I want to write of mountains.
I want the white waters of the rivers
To engulf me,
Coldly calming my swollen heart.
But I am only in an office park devoid of green.
These towers are like trees,
But lifeless and alone am I
Even in the crowd around me.
I want the smell of the soil.
I want the fractals of sun through the leaves.
Take my hand tightly and guide me
'Cross the slippery stones along this path.
My favorite things are those photogenic flowers...
The ones here don't grow quite the same,
Trapped in a small patch of dying dirt.
I look at that concrete cage and think of me.
I want to write of nature, but there are only mirrors
Of the glass miles high that show me exactly where I was never meant to be.

Mountains Calling,
As my love for them grows
copious greenery adding
an extra CHILL
making winters special-
Here I come Banbasa
to find my old love
and make new love with YOU !!!