Mountains and rivers—a single dream,
Wind and rain— one shared verse.
,The mind unbound is the Way,
All things return to One
The mountain wears its age in silent stone,
A throne of frost and wind-carved bone.
It does not speak of time’s slow theft—
Only the sky leans close to listen.
The pines are its unfinished sermon,
Rooted deep in dark and sermon.
Snow writes its psalms across the peak,
Then melts into the creek’s small speech.
Oh pilgrim, if you climb to ask,
It will answer—but not fast.
The mountain gives in fragments:
A hawk’s cry, a lichen’s patience.