You neatly told me
That your muse is more a student
Of mountain writing
Than of poems; the way they go in
And out, all natural and deserted.

How otherwise can one know
The heart of the matter than
To isolate the heart, at least
For a moment or several, with
What remains of earth and air?

Leave it alone without water.
Send it into the woods with nothing but
A flimsy packet of beef jerky,
No swimwear, and hope
That the sky doesn't pour itself in riot.

So be ready for anything with
The grace to let the self be
Washed, dunked in a lake
Of coffee to emerge what it could
Have been from the beginning.

Wake with me as the sun sets across the tree lined peaks.
Close your eyes when your lids grow weary.
Fall asleep in our tent, as the sun rises through the night.
Our fire burned bright, as we talked about finding love, losing life, and weeks gone by.
Savor every moment in these mountains, because soon enough this world will pass is by.

Life's a garden, and we're its bondservants:
Disciplined within by beauty, and
Compelled without by fear -
The wilderness, ever encroaching -
We strive; And seek, more and more:
Life's for living, even every moment,
For the wilderness overwhelms, inevitably.