a ripe place, surrounded by lofty mountains.
A place of learning, but I sit alone.
I spin intricate tales inside my head,
And then share them with myself.
I am my best audience.
Here, I am my only audience.
Into this small world blows a light breeze.
A laughing, light wind fresh off the glacier
Which buffets and plays and talks to me
of distant places, in my own language.
Of places both higher and lower,
deeper and stronger and gentle and still.
Of ways I've never seen or been but only thought
could maybe might someday be a path I walk.
Of places familiar, where my path is well worn,
where I fit and am comfortable, like a favorite old sweater.
This wind is shaped like me now, then
takes its form in the nodding of flowers, itself.
Bright, flowers around me, swaying blue faces
which I see now, as now I notice the bubble of dew
trapped in the hairy stems of this leaf
and catch the green smell of hot grass in the sun.