The weathered face of the cliff
reveals her age,
freckled with snow and ice,
stony wisdom of a sage.

A waterfall of chiseled stone
frozen ice like foam,
dribbled milk on god’s chin,
messy messiah reveals himself again.

We peak like the mountaintops
and pause when we feel desire;
infinite stretching in and out,
ice can still create fire.

Taking turns around the curves,
we speed and we go slow.
Even when we’re lost in pine
our bodies form a sure arrow.

We make-believe valleys,
fictional tomorrows still unknown.
The future finds me in your arms,
my only home.