Pounding dusk and grassy soil
point to the god of the hills
slapping the roots of a small tree
with his belt, laughing at his own efforts,
the owl of refined exertion on his shoulders,
ready to hang blossoms on a thistling remainder,
to point up the sky in search of fiery and far
contortions clasping fateless fate,
driving furrows through the flank
of the mountain's stem
for a one-way climb,
a peak's pool of glue,
a dirty pocket,
lips and ephemeral foundation.