mountains

Winter will come and it will ache in the right ways, like so many memories blurred by time.

Somewhere a child lies face up in the snow, their breath hovering above parted lips before falling,

freezing like teardrops at the corners of closed eyes.

This is a place of melting, tree branches clawing towards a deep blue sky, casting boughs of wet snow aside like chains,

pattering a frantic staccato against the stones below.

You cannot grow up in a place like this without letting it inside you,

the way snowmelt curls against mountains, nestling it’s way into the cracks,

and freezing,

tearing you apart.

This place will change you,

but come spring,

as the silt of your soul tumbles towards the sea below,

you will be reminded that it is in change that the freedom to this place is found.

There is freedom here,

in the way my breath escapes these lungs,

the way the words escape my throat, messy and incoherent like so many pebbles clattering down a mountainside,

but I have spent too much of this life afraid of heights,

and there is something exhilarating about falling

towards you.