The hollows of snow on the
mountain every day are less.
Every day my green plants are
bigger and shoots taller.  I am
tumbling down the other side of
my mountain, having reached the
summit.  I could go no higher.
Once my tumbling is done, (and
I have more cuts and bruises
to add to the rest) - perhaps 
I will find there is pasture
there, and it is soft and sweet.
The distance has turned grey:
there is rain coming, the cold
water will ease my tired feet.

There are black buds on the pale
ash tree:  symbol of me.

One Year Round The Sun
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