When the sound of rushing water drowns the noise of planes, cars, trucks, and trains I will find my peace surrounding me.

The cool, clear flow draws my senses close as a memory, their reunion a simple and storied gift granted only to those who seek it.

A pillar of my body and a shield to my spirit, it grants vitality and strength to my conscience- an echinacea for the soul.

From mountain to sea it runs wild, its solstacean pulse carrying the life blood of nature through sand shore veins.

And when I find that peace, I will again embrace that sweet sacrament of life on and through me. I will set aside my glass mask, stand before it alone, and bathe in the blood of the earth.

Fresh waters cut deep faces into the mountains of time

Wrinkled brown, laughter lines

Eyes of stone bearing witness to their own beautiful deconstruction.

I stand in the desert surveying their timeless aging from afar

Free from thought, free from culpability

We stand separated by a vastness of gritty indifference.

If I could reach, I would run and flail my fists screaming:

"Might mountains, stalwart stones! Lift this cure from on my home!"

And those waters would carve a cut deep to the mighty mountains' bones

And I would be left hot, dry, and alone

Because mountains, head to heart, were always made of stone.

Bright and beautiful in my own eye,

true beauty lingers long after its presence fades away.

The smell of smoke tells tales of flames

long after they've cooled into the ashy autumn soil.

And though I'm not near enough to feel its warmth or bask in its light

the trace of smoke in my hair and on my skin

carries on with me into my bed

longing for that heat again.