Self-Inflicted

From the lonely house,

through the pines and oaks,

past the old well, he could see,

hear, and smell the water.

The creek below the crippled home

in the wildwood sang to him.

His ear was drawn to her springs

moving along in accidentals,

unmediated measures,

and familiar rhythms

played by the encouraging breeze.

He heard her say one day:

Come down off your foothill and

climb your mountain.

Stop and breathe me in.

Too soon a journey to where

the air is clean but thin.

She remembered to him:

the child in you loved to fall,

to tumble like a bee,

to smile and know

your road’s end,

a world not up side down,

but your mountain below.