by Beth Burrell

by Diana Raab

The mountains where I walk
instill in me a deep sense of peace,

a shimmering lightness
of relief and bliss in a place
where my lungs can inhale

a green breath of delight.
My green hiking boots laden

with mud stains, similar to
the palate of a rainy day painter.

Each day for the past year,
I’ve climbed this hill,

ears snatching the sounds
of chirping blue jays and other secrets
whispered by nature.

To the left, a sleek stream flows,
a gentle reminder of my own call of nature,

as I meander between the bushes
of the rocky path, squat in its magic,

wipe and cover up, like my ancestors
did way before I had a chance to notice.

The silence and fresh air massage
my neurons and every moment here

is cherished as I rejoice in the wonder
of what the creator whoever he or she is,

has left here for me to enjoy even
if I must return to earth tomorrow.