(a sonnet in free verse)
There’s no greater lie than the one
offered by the mountain in autumn.
It tells us slowly of spring desires,
but prepares us for sleep and oblivion:
it asks us to renounce our hunger
when first we set foot upon its body;
it smears its own palette of colours
with murky streams and muddy paths.
It wants us to stumble in obedience,
like a white flag surrendering to wind.
It moves the hands of our clock
a lifetime ahead of us and whispers
in our ears that we’re hardly there,
that we’re almost gone,
that we’re gone.