The Mountain

The mountain seems clear with grace
Today in the yellows
of soft clustered pine;

my feet
stamp rhythm to the earth,
a light stride for the melody —

The boughs lay low, as each tree
dances with its flavor
turning round the shade;

Wildsimian whispers
gathering high in the winds
become

The wandering thoughts
with cinnamon spears
to the creeks and shadows,

Life weaves in the high air
holding the light,
my heart sings in

each spark behind
the mountain’s golden door.

—Lola Ridge

• Lola Ridge