Evenings the Mt. Blanc displays its lights,
deep rose blazing, a strip of pure gold
rising above the darkness, when our world
is silenced, and we are reminded
that its dimension is no taller than
the grass, and our passage is brief.
The mountain’s language is that
of eagles and hawks, the crash of water
over rocks. Yes, there are airplanes
roaring above, but only for a minute
and minutes are all we have
and must learn to cherish. They fill
the emptiness that can assault us when we least
expect it, the shadow of loneliness,
the memory of the child that graced
our arms, the person who was able
to see what lies beneath our silence,
a sudden burst of understanding.
May each moment be filled
with love and the passion that guides
us for they are our mountains.