will of the mists

The way the clouds hang, draped around these mountains, does something to my heart. I feel it deep in my soul. What that something is...that's a topic for poets far more gifted than I. To simply be present in the company of such majesty is all that I can ever hope for.

Today I watched the whisper of father sky as it caressed the heights of mother earth. Such an embrace, such a romance; the two locked in each others arms and searching into the places of the soul. And yet, so different. The vast and vague reaches of the sky, like a rebellious ocean paying no heed to gravity, contrasts against the very definition of stoic principle. The mountains stand as a defined construct. They have no mind for the thrills of freedom or the youth of an ever changing existence. Relentless in their quiet way and unyielding in their form; mountains are the great constants we lean upon for safety.

Though mountains may be as they are, no skyline would be complete without the sky. Under that illustration, the mountains are the heart and soul of the heavens. They form the heartbeat, pulsing their jagged lineage across the pale blue stars.

And so I wonder...Was I ever really meant to whisper some sweet sun dance song, or am I simply waiting; immovable, steadfast, and determined to catch a cloudy embrace in my arms?