I once lived on the top of a mountain
Above the fog which billowed and shifted beneath my feet
Like the gently lapping waves of a great, white sea.
Other mountain peaks poked through that vast ocean –
                     Isolated islands.
And the sky above was very clear and bright.

The unseen people below me looked to the sky
And saw nothing but a flat, grey ceiling –
A fitting cover for a dreary world
Full of busy-ness and duty and
Feet planted firmly on the ground.

And beneath that grey, the California seasons
Passed by unnoticed in boring sameness.

But there on the mountain, I could watch the cycle of life –
The sight of the first glowing, translucent leaves of spring.
The hot, heavy scent of sage and dusty summer oak.
The whispering and rustling of dying leaves.
And the delicate caress of the first snowflake on my cheek.

I could climb to the highest peak
And sit alone above the world,
Silent and at peace.