From Where
It was at the tip of my mind where the light peeked in and asked on which path my heart should travel and my thoughts begin.
On top of the mountain to see it all—the weather, for one, that could take a fall—making it one day green and tall down below—or perhaps never reach the land at all, yet save a cocoon of a bothersome moth sent to pollinate the flowers that bloom through darkness or feed the birds so they continue to fly— ever so high in the great blue sky.
Or on the ground with the dust of a soil—yet eager seeds pushing gently through to catch the breath of a soft evening breeze, feel the yellow warmth of a rising day, or give endurance to birth more young— so no one ever feels alone with the intensity of the sun.
Is it on the mountain we must be to see hope's forever eternity, or on the ground to feel the pain of struggling days and joyful eyes beaming outward—filling the soul of one and another?
Or perhaps we hover around and through them both, forgoing wisdom for crying eyes to feel what's felt, while later rising high to give strength to tomorrow's hope— when tears have fallen— fallen enough—to fill the emptiness of the deepest abyss so one can then begin to float in the mist.