Return to Mother Mountain

Poured slick and purple over time and tethered to blue sky
Cut open and bleeding by men with machines
You still bare your soul to me
Gather me up in your long green arms with dusty black face and hair and
Nuzzle my cheek and breast close to your own naked skin
Fine leaves and wild pink blooms
Embracing bees and bears, new balds and old rooms
You are warm
Not stark and empty like the mountains of the west
Where people brag as though they molded them with their own two hands
And they weren't prickled up painfully by the hands of G-d
On some fire-filled morning
While you rested with Him on the Seventh Day
And laid out as his bed and his footstool
The place he put his Holy Head
Magenta smattering rays of sunshine on the sunrise after
The Creation of Man.