Mountain Mist

Mountain Mist

I climb where the air grows thin,

clouds curling like smoke around jagged stone.

The wind bites, and the world shrinks

to the path beneath my feet, the rock I touch,

and the endless sky above.

Mist rolls across valleys,

softening edges, hiding peaks,

making the earth a dream I can step into,

but cannot hold.

Birds call across the emptiness,

their wings cutting through invisible walls,

and I follow, trying to keep pace,

knowing the mountain moves with its own will.

At the top, the world is quiet,

not dead, but waiting.

I stand in the fog,

and it feels like the first breath of life,

fresh, pure, untamed,

and I let it fill me completely.

Rocks jut from the earth like frozen waves,

paths twist and spiral like forgotten thoughts.

Every step is a question,

every pause a revelation,

and I realize the mountain teaches

not in answers, but in the stillness between.

I sit on a ledge,

clouds brushing my knees,

listening to the wind sing

in tongues only the mountains understand.

Time loses its meaning here,

seconds folding into eternity,

and I feel a part of something

that existed before and will linger long after.