That Mountain

don’t ever tell me
what I must do
a hawk floating near
that mountains top
taunted me with tempting wings
that effortless flight
leaning into the wind
like that mountain
would never give purchase
so why land
I don’t listen to them
the mountain just might crumble
fall to rubble, no sturdy
rock to let roll down
down to the valley
where the water falls
cascading over sharp ledges
they laugh, the hawks
at my ropes and carabiners
at my bottle of water
and my bandolier
and they squawk when I fall
appreciating the absurd humor
of my thinking I could ever climb
beyond hump or hillock
over ridge or up a spur
there will never be a peak for me
wrapped in the ridiculous notion
that this was mine to own
mine to conquer, such derision
I let the mountain be alone.
I stop listening to hawks
and instead go barefoot in the grass.
risking the ire of wasps

Judith A Sears
©08/16/2019

Inspired by a Lee Sargent prompt shared with me by Sara Garcia. jas