a drizzle from the fog condenses on the leaves,
   a soft and silent white noise of the rain,
   concealing and relaxing from behind the shrouds of mist,
   
   "what color of M&M's do you like?  I like red."
   "I like blue."  At least they go together, voices from the mist,
   at least... but wait, this is not that year, it cannot be blue,
   
   the years all mix together in the white noise drizzling fog,
   all the times and all the places, every mountain's side I've been on,
   lovely places, lovely faces, lonely times and lonely ties,
   
   (walk a while like me, up a road that knows no tracks,
   in the night and only sound to guide.)
   
   "and so, in the evening, He said" and I say now,
   look, at the mountain's slope behind the log cross,
   in front of a glass plate armor between this world,
   
   breathe the wet, breathe the fog, the cloud come home to roost,
   hear the pings and distant echoes a half-hearted bird's attempts
   to sing out and tell the world.
   
   Sing out! Tell of this mountain fastness,
   of the fog that remains the same,
   never yellow pollution, never any other time than now,
   
   (stumble off the road as it bends under a moss-draped cliff,
   run your fingers along it as you walk beside it,)
   
   and the years all mix together in the white noise drizzling fog,
   and there are many fires under stone, many plumes that mark the buildings,
   steam from heaters, or smoke from fires, or air from the greenhouse at my schooling's end.

   "There any way I can get outside?" asks the boiler-man,
   there any way you can't? the fog is everywhere we are,
   if the mountain falls, the trees will hear it,
   
   (don't fall when the cliff face drops away,
   having climbed with realizing, the house lights are now above,)
   
   snitches, revealed through the mist, of a tapestry my life,
   a ranch house, half under the hill, all the way beyond it,
   a dorm, a bar set into the ground.
   
   Sing out! Drunk on the mountain's fastness,
   on the fog that remains the same,
   never pale spills of used beer, never any time but now,
   
   and the years all mix together in the white noise drizzling fog,
   and the forest gardens grow, many plants are growing up to water,
   carefully tended by man and carefully tended to by beast.
   
   (there are no stairs, but slabs of stone, generally ascending,
   walk up, leaning into it against the slick by lichen stone,)
   
   Delighting lights, that shine not away the darkness,
   but to make it more absolute, so no one looking for us can find,
   seek, and I shall find you,
   
   even in the fog that damps the ground with a rag,
   cleaning up the smells, cleaning up the noises,
   can it even soak up lives and spilling blood that I don't hear?
   
   (do not forget how you came here,
   you will climb again, even if you did, but knowing will make it faster,)
   
   Sing out! Cry out your pain that hides,
   cry it out, no one here will know you it to be from you if you've hidden it so far,
   cry for it is never any time but now,
   
   and the years all mix together in the white noise drizzling fog,
   and now always is crying, now is always happy,
   now always has a fog, that insulates, that keeps away,
   
   but there's a warm welcome inside,
   around a fire, around a radiator,
   at the tent's flap, for it is always now,
   
   (until you go too fast and bump your nose
   on a low-hanging tree from the forest that surrounds. )
   
   and the white noise drizzling fog can come inside,
   but never survive, cry out this mountain fastness,
   cry out this loneliness that leads back to friendship,
   cry out this mountain majesty.