I picked up ivy
to propagate—
anything living
to bring with me
going away.
I’ve seen the sky so many ways here,
lucky to have spent this many days here,
and I’ll never wonder
whether I savored it enough.
This crisp air’s moved through me
for a third of my life—
my anatomy made softer,
spirituality darker,
in the image of a mountain holler.
The making patient,
slow going as ancient
peaks wearing closer to the ground—
I will be closer,
and closer still
until my last trip down.