
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