mountain roots

those meadows
that bloomed after
the death, when I
thought the world
had ended

unbecoming, the
aspen’s half lilted shade

shame interrogated the roots
of mountain woodland, the wild
grasses, the golden glow of
sappho sun

the meadow rust with both
bones old and young

time distorted itself
and I became, you say,
this non-person

Here are feathers the color of smoke, of flame.  Here are feathers the color of light on still water, feathers the color of milk.  Here are feathers green as ferns, blue as forget-me-nots, red as thorns.  Here are feathers brave and blue as a noonday shadow.  Feathers as black as the darkness behind eyes that have not yet opened.  Feathers crawling with ember-glow, starred with frost.  Striped and spotted, spangled, sparkling, glittering, glowing, burning and tattering like leaves in a fire, feathers shining like the sun.

I have twine here made from the sinews of comets, the wool of the shearling moon, from down drawn off the belly of the sky itself.

I have glue rendered from the roots of mountains and the hides of old wives’ tales, and a brush made from the tail of a leap year.

Take what you need, make yourself wings.


Oh my darling, you took this seed
And planted yourself on the mountain side
Your roots dig into the bedrock below
And cement you to all that sinks
You call out from the storms and wind
Screaming this is not where you belong
But no one comes along to remove you
So you stay planted in your own heart

But, oh my darling, you can take yourself
And lift off the ground, remove your roots
Dislodge yourself from all you stand on
For there is freedom in your veins
Shake yourself of the brittle dirt
You have buried yourself in all this time
Take up your colors and hold them high
Let the world receive them in all that they are

Oh my sweet, sweet darling, remember
Your brilliant petals stand among
The dull grays of the frozen world
You have inadvertently made for yourself
So take this advice, spread your arms
Far apart, colors standing proud for all to see
Remember the bitter cold cannot halt you
From what and who you are meant to be

—  The Mountain Flower by me

thomas-cross  asked:

Having heard a plant that would possibly lead him to a cure for a illness, thomas made his way trying for days now on tracking and finding he plant. It was rare and almost excitant which was not good

Dumbledore sent her on a mission to find a freaking plant… a plant. Tonks had much more to do besides looking for it. He told her no details, just that it was needed. According to the books it was rare and almost extinct. Maybe Dumbledore sent Tonks because she shouldn’t be tripping over air to get to it.

The plant was high on a mountain and she climbed it. It took several weeks, but she made it, her bones brittle from the lack of oxygen. The air made it impossible to fly up here. When her eyes were upon it, she gasped. How in the hell was she going to get it back down the mountain? It was rooted into the mountain and it looked like it had been there at least half a century.


In the 1970’s a group of California hippies built a new technology that changed the world. Computers? Nope. They were building the earliest commercial mountain bikes.

MORE. The Roots of Dirt: How Mountain Bikes Went From Clunkers to Global Phenomenon