from a collection entitled Stirrup of the Sun & Moon
If you send your spirit out,
even from down here in the lowlands
fresh mountain air can fill your lungs.
You don't have to move an inch
to hear the water cascading over the falls.
East toward the Sun.
North toward the Moon.
Chickadees delivering long talks
on the nature of existence.
The spirit of the high hills
carve away what is no longer needed.
The craggy ridgeline path itself
polishes your soul's piles of troubled rubble
into small handfuls of precious gold.
Though you are alone, you are accompanied.
Something ancient yet familiar draws near.
You swear you hear a voice on the breeze say:
Be grateful for what you have.
Do not long for what you do not.
Herein lies contentment.
(c) 2019 / Frank LaRue Owen / purelandpoetry.com