The other side of this mountain
is not the mountain. This side
is honey-golden, sticky-sweet,
full of phone conversations with mother.
The other side is a bell,
ringing in the church-steeple
the day mother died.
The other side of the mountain
is not a mountain. It is a dark
valley crossed by a river.
There is a ferry at the bottom.
This mountain is not a mountain.
I walked to the top, but it turned
and was only a shelf halfway up.
I felt like an unused Bible
sitting on a dusty pew.
A hawk soars over the mountain.
She is looking for home.