The mountains are alive with fire,
transcendent breath, vigorous and endless.
Though they have been given a name,
a part of them will always be nameless,
and I could say the same about myself.
I heed the call, after all, of mist-laden glades.
I walk among stones with broken blades.
I come to you, mountains of fire,
full of so many things that matter,
yet they will not matter to you.
I come to you as a whittler of days,
a world-worshipper who knows he cannot fool you.
I come to you as a man who has a boy still looking
out from behind the bars of his rib cage.
I come to you with an owl on my shoulder
who comes and goes as she pleases.
I come to you as a failed magician,
with iron, ash, light, dust, rain
on either side of my skin.
I come to you as a failure, but at least I am a great one.
I come to you with the meaning of my name,
do with it what you will.
I come to you as the recorder
of my small life, pockets filled
with scribbled notes
of little use.