The Burning Mountain

April 29, 2011

Out in the arid sun, a high
Mound of cracked red clay-
The burning mountain- stood tall.
Half a mile up the jagged slope
A lean-to staggered in the heat.
Under a sheet metal roof,
Two gloved hands and a
Sweaty, furrowed brow
Gazed into the embers.
He was dirty and sullen,
Dirty even for a smithy, with
Arms bare to the shoulder
Moving with careful, practiced
Precision. He pushed the
Reddened coke out into
The center of the
Gathering inferno;
There was still some
Work to be done.

A fine dust of soot
Coated the iron tools
And the dancing flicker of
The fire breathing to life
Gave the smith’s smoky hair
An eerie tinge of crimson.
When the long metal rod
Was a glaring white, he
Clutched at it with rusted pliers
And couldn’t help but grin as the
Plume of steam reached up
From the slack, the metal
Bubbling the surface of
The brackish water
Like the devil’s bath.

This one long ingot
Would soon become two
Polished pieces:
Two twin rings
With no adornments
Meant for a life apart
In every sense of the word.




September 10, 2009

Hit the throttle
Two wheels race
Beneath us, the
White and yellow
Lines all a blur
The vastness of
The mountain
Looms higher above
Our heads, twenty
Miles to Paradise
That graceful transition
Mother nature’s
Change of wardrobe
From the autumn green
To a frosted combination
White, grey, and blue
Your hair blowing behind
Trailing us like a tiny
Comet’s tail in space
The air seems thinner
And a little bit colder
I love it when I can
See your breath
We decided to hike to
The east slope to camp
A single tent with a
Single sleeping bag
If for nothing more
Than the chance to see
The sun peek over the
Edge of the world
And begin its steady crawl
Across the sky