Thirty-Five

After Mary Oliver

thirty-five years
the mountains and forests have
called loudly my name and I have tried
   to follow their forceful

impetus running toward
looming hills looming woods
with leaps and strides
   looming closer till

not one day
was less to me than inundating
discursive full of wonder
   its pale dawn showing

through the curves of the fog
behind condensated windows
all the misted host of the Blue Ridge
   thirty-five

and again this morning as always
I am freed as the thought comes forth
small yet delightful and I am feeling
   that language

is not like a river
is not a tree is not mountains but
is the thing pulling them out of the void
   wholly continually

from eternity and I
breathe back humble metered praise.

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