Back to
The Tiger's Nest in Bhutan. Photo by Chelsea Ferrel.

The Place On The Hill

To the place on the hill

I want to hold your surface

The handmade rock wall that was eaten up by mossy earth

You will take me to the place I rest, where the only thing taller is hills that forge small society

You are the fortress that protects the smiles of us who haven’t seen much like you before

An untouched place

where a moat of ferns and flora surround you

but there is an absence of militant soldiers, and your inhabitants are only small creatures that have the pleasure to lie underneath your prayer flags, and bathe in the wind

you are where the soles of my feet plant roots that work themselves down into the core of a mountian

as the warmth of black tea sits on lips to bear a thankful grin

you surrender yourself, engulfed in sound of a river and the wings that obscure sky above

I see no fight in your structure, like my agey’s calm eyes

Ancient, but kind

I crawl up your bones until I reach the tip of your nose, where I gaze down for miles at your satin bed of earth

You fill my lungs with an aroma of growth

It plants seeds in the soft tissues of my humble abode

You have showed me that I am so small

An ant on the bump

The last rock in the stack

To the place on the hill

I want to be your surface