Mountain High Poem by Jay P Narain

Who cares about
the height of the mountains?
Who would care to scale it?

Who cares about
the color of the rocks,
without the sun light
to reflect from it?

Who notices its modesty,
standing tall, but silent of itself?

Who observes that the mountain
remains unaffected,
not pained by winter snow,
not pleased by summer glow?

Who notices its wisdom,
attaining the heights of perfection?

Who names its generosity,
among the elks, the birds,
the animals who make it home?

Who notices its love?
It bonds with earth,
It radiates warmth when needed,
as love does.

Who knows the mountains came from,
seeing it there?

Who wonders how old that mountain is?
It has been ageless for years.

Who wonders whether the mountain
knows itself full of tress
or if trees know themselves as the part of the mountain?

Who does not go to seek it,
for its stillness, for its silence,
as if it understands the mind’s needs,
the heart’s nourishment?


(An adaptation from! like the lake a Chinese poet sits beside in a painting by Michael Shepherd)