the gathering...

The mountains are damp with rejuvenation,
residuals on the canopy floor of decay turned fertile,
and we lightly tread over, through, and under,
to feel, smell, and remember our connection
and we forage in search of the spring offerings
and we remember why we came

It's cold but it's not,
It's wet but we don't feel it
as there are ancients all around,
and the mountain peoples press past the foothills
with notched out clearings big enough
for their scavenged booty,
and the rust still creeps across their ornaments
draping their yards and porches,
and the signs of attempts at eked out livings
hang in various forms of dilapidation,
and the mountains don't seem to care