On the Mountaintop

The tree grows on the mountaintop.
It strikes its roots, it doesn't stop.
The mountain stands, so tall and free
beside the crashing, rolling sea.
The sea lies low, so wet and cool,
and in the sea there swims a fool.
The strong-armed fool with iron lungs
makes panties drop with velvet tongue.
"The tongue's not only made for speech,"
he says while swimming by the beach.
The beach where ocean meets the sand
while lovers walk, all hand-in-hand.
The hands that feel, the hands that make,
some hands that make from batter cake.
The cake's all baked on Drury Lane,
while next door junkies pierce their veins.
But veins still flow, and spread throughout
a body that won't fall to doubt.
That doubt all cutting like a knife,
and curses at the heart of life.
But life is joy despite it all,
for all that grows, or walks, or crawls.
And what can crawl will one day stand,
and speak to time the time's command.
For life commands that each takes part,
and gives itself, and gives its heart.
The heart that hides itself in fear
will lose itself with passing years.
The years that flow with all that goes
in summer's heat and winter's snows.
See snow that blankets earth with glee,
and whitens every planted tree.
The tree grows on the mountaintop.
It strikes its roots, it doesn't stop.

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(Photo credit: "Islote del Neusa" from Sergio Fabara Munoz on flickr)