It’s no wonder I long to get close to her 

To understand her vision 

To center myself as she is centered. 

She can appear clear, majestic 

Especially when the sun makes 

Its first appearance in early spring. 

At other times she hides behind a whirl  

Of gray, black, and haze… waiting. 

But I know she’s watching. 

I’ve travelled upon her paths 

From switchback to meadow 

From wilderness to timberline 

From gorge to plateau. 

In these places, she slows time down 

Where I carefully step upon boulders and rocks 

Slipping at times on a slope 

Steadying myself with my hand 

For balance 

Feeling her moist face, her coolness 

A roughness and yet a smooth calm. 

I can tell you her rivers are her voice. 

They have lulled me into thought 

And her streams are part blood, part tears 

Joy and pain, yin and yang, like mine 

For like her, I will not last forever. 

We are built of gravity and sun. 

She can scold with wind and howls 

And snow that piles upon her forest floors  

Into layers like thick frosting, dimming all senses. 

Even creeks and the moving stars vanish. 

I can lose myself within that space 

Attempting to ease my own fierceness 

For there is a respect that must be earned 

And I’m still learning 

With cautious, careful awareness of  

My own fragile, sensitive soul 

To reach a place upon her shoulders 

Where she plays with mist 

As if she is unwilling to tell secrets. 

But I know it is only the rain and clouds 

That seek her embrace, and once gone 

Her poetry is lucid and unambiguous.