Another Reminder of What We're Waiting For

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ANOTHER REMINDER OF WHAT WE'RE WAITING FOR


The morning mist was soft mimesis

of the mountain, mirroring its fist


and knuckled contours, if just a bit lower,

gentler, as if it were an echo or a toddler


by his father’s knees. Or maybe the mountain

itself was descending, sending its image


down into the city just waking to find 

themselves—like it or not—surrounded, 


subsumed, even breathing in the peak 

that until then was beyond their reach.


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