cut glass roads

my mountain sanctuary I do
not like to leave - I start
to root like a tree, to feel
the golden pool calm over on
its surface, even though
the depths delirious are
not at peace

moving down and south
I feel my roots strain
my waters turbulent
again, it does not foster
stillness and staying put

again I move my foot
onto the trail, and head
to the warm climes, the
hallowed halls, temperate
even in cold March -

how I lift my eyes to those
hills, even from the distance
and yearn for my return

the cold air, the snow
fields, the crisp rains
draw me back
to my high altitude
domain:  sanctuary:
my home
when I know no lack
where all the long trails
converge to a point where
they disappear, wet grass

takes over
and my feet are clear
of all the cut-glass-years

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