Consecration

Nothing,
No thing,
Can be
Elevated

Until it has mastered
Descent’s quirky
Humbling call.

No soul without body
No spirit without soul
No body without spirit

No reality without imagination.

That sharp-angled rock
On your small wooden
Hearth speaks

A language
All its own,
Carries the mountain
Still

In its red bones
Like a cougar
At the kill.

It wants you
To put down
The pen

And listen.

Now.