I once lived at the top of a mountain
Above the fog which billowed and shifted beneath my feet
Like the gently lapping waves of a great, white sea.
Other peaks poked through that vast ocean –
And the sky above was very clear and bright.
Unseen people below me looked up
And saw nothing but a flat, grey ceiling –
A fitting cover for a dreary world
Full of busy-ness and duty and
Feet planted firmly on the ground.
And beneath that grey, the California seasons
Pass by unnoticed in monotonous sameness.
But on the mountaintop, I watched the cycle of life –
The sight of the first glowing, translucent leaves of spring.
The hot, heavy scent of sage and dusty summer oak.
The whisperings and rustling of dying leaves.
And the delicate caress of the first snowflake on my cheek.
I climbed to the highest peak
And sat alone above the world
Silent and at peace.