Climb the parade.

Mountains indent and protruded, beams
the color of citrus and earth, inhale.
The terraces of crops, they danced as if
to sprout to songs that had never been,
and yet timely through the ages, heard, hear.

I walked on it, dripping weight, the weight of
stagnant pain pressed, bled, into my shoulders, and I cried,
knowing these indents as all of our own. But
flowing even wetter, glory spirals within, and I catch
dancing mountains and layers of green
spread roots, trees in stature gleaming tall, they clap
and flow up to praising heights, knowing these songs as their own.

And I promised, to forever search these mountains.
To climb the parade of beams.

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