Mountain Kids are Foolhardy Miners
I am a child of the mountains
quite at home when encircled by
breath-stealing heights
precipitously perched on craggy rocks
always happy with the sky a little closer.
I’ve gambled my life to
enter a mountain’s chamber
and lie curled up in a crystalline womb
like a pearl in an oyster
a spy in a geode
an uncanny fetus
returning to its origin.
We dug straight into the vein
ignoring laws of physics in favor of
pure youthful bravado.
One at a time…in and out
snaking slowly down the narrow hole
its termination some 30 feet into
loamy oblivion.
Needing to breathe again
our subtle panic
deftly ignored
on a second by second basis
so that eyes could drink
the glittering walls
hands fleet in the darkness.
Each returning miner brought back
a full sack of gems
never before touched by human hands
the clearest virgin quartz
the most pristine beauties
faceted with mathematical perfection
singularly encased in
a gift wrap of stretchy, orange, clay.
How could we resist?
Roaring down the hill with relief and adrenaline
to the hot springs by the river
where we’d cleanse our loot and dirty hands
comparing takes with an evaluative eye
the fear of the dig washing away from our minds
as the clay washed from the crystals.
