There is no breath that's like a breath
that's taken three miles high.
And never so deep was a sleep
after days of light in eye.
And water is the most beloved
when burning thirst is slaked.
To starving souls no gourmet meal
e'er bested bread, fresh baked.
I stared, and stared, into a leaf
until my vision changed.
And I could see the whole, wide world
so artfully arranged.
The leaf, it mapped my universe
from atom to the sprawl.
Compressed, layer-on-layer, there
was one and, at once, all.
But before I could grasp all that
this vision truly meant,
a gust of wind did catch that leaf,
and fluttering it went.
Climbing a mountain, I feel like
I've escaped Plato's cave.
My senses reel as though they're a
crew of newly freed slaves.
The sky is bluer, rivers green,
each grit granule is clear.
And even at the very edge,
there's ease in feeling fear.
By "ease" I mean not frozen stiff,
but like a friend so dear
that one can take one's grand peril,
a gift received with cheer.
Take me to the mountains, I say,
where it's serene and real,
and I can open up my sight
to a world that's ideal.
I've seen in ordinary eyes
a special twinkling glow.
In rough and sinewy muscle
I've seen a grace in throe.
From rotund torsos, I have seen
a lithesome prance or strut.
I've seen a thing called character,
in schnozzes that kink or jut.
If beauty below the surface,
it finds you splendor-blind.
Then defect 's not in the object
but in the viewer's mind.
I stand upon the cobbled walk
as scooters whiz on by,
and think this world 's too fast for me,
and tilt my face to sky.
But there's a contrail gash up there
made by a hurtling sky-tube
that jets its way to who knows where -
while I'm the slack-jawed rube.
To match the world to my breath's pace,
and watch the blur lines form,
and hear each note of music played...
We'd sync to my waveform.