Holy Mountain

From this small mountain
folded valleys glide
to shining waters.

Flowing like quicksilver,
dark rivers run free
to the sun-drenched sea.

This is my holy mountain.

I seek your gentle voice
where the small birds rest
on thin branches.

See how their breath
arouses the storm?

Fluttering wings
can make shudder the world,
to passion stir vast
twisting winds.

Though I am small
and dying,
make of me
a pillar of fire,

and I’ll descend from these heights
to flood the dark valleys
with your living light.

poem by Steven Federle
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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