Poetry With Hart

The mountain changes with every breath the trees take from the heavens surrounding them. In one season a sigh as children run beneath her branches, build lean to’s and cross her streams looking for frogs. Her moss beds the dreams of a future, they can only hope to reach.

In another season the breath becomes a scream. The mountains breathe in the smoke and dust as machinery tops her majesty, taking more pieces off to satiate a hunger without end. Wild fires ravage her ridges, turning hope to ash and the dreams become ground into her soil.

The next season is silence, snow beds whispering if you’re close enough to hear it. The dreams aren’t lost, only awaiting the thaw to begin again.

The mountain grows with us,
Our mother, friend, and master of
our wildest dreams.