I sit upright
and look at the mountain,
dusty, with gnarled veins,
like a clenched fist,
demanding clarity,
raised in defiance
of this morning mist.

I begin to tumble down,
a blind of leaden drops,
the outpour of panting rain
laden with remorse.

I begin to fall apart,
a swirl of ashen flakes,
at the foot of the mountain,
on the pines and frozen lakes,

while the mass of blue stone,
a rugged palm, unfolds
with a wobbly purple sun
squashed between its fingers.