High on a hill or mountain pass,
Up where the breath is hard and sharp,
Life is firm, solid, real.
Adrift from the meadows or luscious plains,
Off in the wind, forceful and fierce,
Existence is teetering, vicarious, rough.
High mountains are for wild goats,
The crags our refuge and shelter sure.
Footing the ledges over the heights.
He has lifted me out of the mud
And placed me on the rock and solid ground.
Breaking in the desolate home.
Written on 3rd January 2020.