Squaw Peak

Has a stone ever kissed your hand?
Its jagged lips - wet, old, yet passionate,
Have they touched the inner you?
(that fraction where all pretense stops)
I find "me" in the mountains.
In the leaking, oozing rainwater, stubbornly struggling for a path.
Maybe it is blind faith, the unending Jungian archetype.
The type that would die in flames for one's faith
or calmly move mountains.
In the rocks that the path discarded - false starts, false dreams, false loves.
What are they? Pick one up...
Examine it and quickly replace it -
Maybe just look at the little red and yellow veins, pause...
Answer the pull of time and move on.
Up, up, up the path.
The shrubs - the books you read, the movies you saw -
Your solid core of opinions sometime disrupted
by a laughing chipmunk peaking out from underneath a flower.
And behind you - the smog tastes city roofs.
The other side of the mountain is all there is to see.