The mountains and the mist

amazing waterfall with lush foliage on rocks
Photo by ArtHouse Studio on
The mountains and the mist

Stone - the house of spirit

Spirit without a house is like

A tortoise might be without a shell

Or a flower with no upholding stem

The sun without a companion moon

A dream without the awakening

The night absent the dawn

The indwelling spirit – gone

Like the man without a wit of sense

That strange, ill-tempered one

Who, with no permission

Built a world of plastic,

A desecration, bereft of magic

A digging up of the hallowed bones

Of the sacred

Gold-winged dragons

Bringing forth a brittle box –

Stolen from the earth’s crust

And the planet’s inmost soul

Leaving an empty pit

A blasphemy

A parody of being

An End

Hence, we must go back now


To the land of dawn-green forests

Where the horned lark may call forth her wisdom,

Where a pack of wolves sing

In the echoing dark

Where the Mediterranean plum

Trees greet the tall, talking rocks

With the pattern of the sunlit web of shadow,

The houses of spirit

Rise again in the mist

Where the waves honor the owl-bright night,

And fishes leap with keener sight

Under the fleet,

Billowing sails of the eternal moon -

The ship of all beginning.

© Copyright, Sharon St Joan, 2023