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Mountaintop turned inward

Toward the core

Of earth and heat and darkness

Reaching down

Like fingers jutting through

And under sand.

 

Mountaintop of doubt

With squinting eyes

Adjusting to the black

To call it yellow and

Plenty of light to see

But seeing only desperately.

 

Mountaintop buried

And shuttering from the sun

In cowered motion learned

Concaving practiced

Like a spoon where upward visages,

Down.

 

Mountaintop of falling flat

And calling flat a height

Not knowing where the fresh air

Blows and comforted by

The night.

 

A cradle tight with closing lid

Of lulling sounds and smells

Of dirt and worms and settled dust

Of dropping low and thinking rise

A valley of comfort until:

This is not up.

 

Jill Szoo Wilson

 

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