Climb Every Mountain

I am standing on a mountain, well not actually a mountain, more like an out cropping on the edge of one. Above me, slippery rocks, with barely a path. No predetermined route, only the belief that there is one. Often there is fog which confuses me and blocks my forward motion.

Below me a spectacular valley, lush with life and words. Yes words. Terraced fields of them ripe for picking. Words hang from trees like tart macs, sweet bartletts, and lemons so sour they pucker thought. And elsewhere, there are words as drops, forgotten on the forest floor, soft and rotten to their core.

Like a part on the well tressed surface of a globe, there’s a river, dividing the valley. Ambling and wide at one end, narrow and white-water rushing at the other.

On the surface of the river boats are filled to overflowing with words, some of which have toppled into the water and float. They sun and soak in the pleasure of their momentary cruise.

In the narrows, the words travel fast, so fast in fact that once seen, if they are not quickly plucked from the foam and left to dry, they are as forgotten as autumn leaves turned crispy at the bottom of evaporated puddles baking in the sun.

And here I am, teetering on the edge of a crag, searching for just the right batch to fill my basket. And I will fill it, so full in fact, that once I reach the peak I will toss the overused and unnecessary to the fierce alpine winds. The unused will finally settle on the gentle breezes below to once again, feed the soil.

Time to climb.