Two Little Poems about Everything

One Morning

One morning, the mountain farmer goes out
to milk his goats and never comes back;

A quiet stream leaps from the edge of a high
granite cliff and disappears into the late
summer air;

Sitting in an alpine meadow, more flowers
than grass, the sound of delicate bells
rings out,

   wave after wave,

from the metal which sleeps in rocks.






Stone Mountains

If one carries the mountain in one's heart, to
pick up the stone is to pick up the mountain,
the world.

But for us, a stone is just a stone and nothing
more, just so much dead weight,
like a pack which grows heavier
with each passing step.

Half way up, half broken, turning back...
and the sound of stone mountains
just is—in the wind.