MOUNTAINS MANTLE ME
Above the treeline, where the air is thin
yet rich like honey
in the lungs,
I watch stars cartwheel through ancient dust.
Inhaling cloud’s breath,
I finger rocks,
bits of ancestors
buried here so long
ago
they have turned from particle to crust.
I dissolve
into them, let the mountain
mantle me,
feed me silt
and
barite,
flow its long-buried lava
through my
throat.
This
mountain, its fires slaked low,
will be the last of Earth’s children
to fall.
And I will fall with it,
ancient
dust
cartwheeling
into stars.
