This morning as mist sat on the mountaintop
and looked like everlasting snow
I suddenly got a melancholic yearning for home.
But you are at home!
Yes, I know
but this is a longing for a mythical place
where spring sings
and ice floes break up and play the drum,
where pure water cascades down the mountain side
roaring white froth free from winter’s misery.
Where twilight only arrives at midnight,
last an hour and gives way to sunrise once again.
A spring so intense
that trolls get scared
and throw rocks down steep slopes so be warned.
Whispering gentle mist in your unseeing eye
I can see a dream.