Distant lines of geometry,
tracing where my heart yearns.
Ridges standing in line waiting for me,
to receive their call.

The first call, a whisper, through pines, around cedars,
tempting me to the first ridge,
where a symphony of yearning awaits.

Standing there, I gaze over and thru the mountains,
each named by others, yet each knowing my name.

Shhh. Can you hear them, too?

I start down through the boughs until the only sound I hear
is the sound of my own loneliness.
The next ridge awaits just out of reach
but just within reach.

Shhh.I think it's calling me again.

Yes! The next ridge needs me, too.

Alas, for now the only ridges I see are those of my past.
The ridges call, but only for my youth.