Reaching Mountain's Crescendo

How real your unreal air,
glistening micro vats of life
my lungs drink in,
while wind of your 1st movement
my ears do transcribe.

To my left the river's drum,
proclaiming the 2nd movement
skewering silt,
pulling current across timpani slabs,
the gray rush of glacial tears
rushing to final ringlets of chimes
surrounding burials of
fixed ropes asunder.

How many have climbed your podium,
lifted baton upon sound and eye-scapes transcendent,
deftly planted movement
round acaulescent rests of mind
to experience the suspension of life held taught?

For some,
amidst simple breaths,
crescendo now clashing,
ethereal flames alight,
know the symphony's 3rd,
a brilliance of a finish
but a short distance beyond.

Preparation and practice sing out,
beckoning solitude and peace.

Ropes hold fast.

Spikes beneath my prod
deliver me atop.

The crescendo of merit bows,
nature applauds,
my eyes look further
as pride peers upon another opus of peace,
seeking peaks yet to climb.

“Because it's there,”
proclaimed of once,
is not enough for some,
whose simple melodies
of harmony's unease
layer yet beyond
more dreams and
forever reaching mountain's crescendo.