Clouds billow around the mountain tops
Fine, gossamer as smoke
As if the heights they reach are not
Rock formations or fragments of giant
Earth moulding substance,
But a pot, boiling over on the stove,
My grandmothers soup on the table.
Sometimes i am lonely with the fear
Of losing everything, all sight and sound
Unseen or unheard,
But in this moment i sit and see and hear
And feel blissfully aware
Of standing on the shoulders of
Those who came before me
I can almost see it now
The great hands reaching down, down,
Shaping everything i see and more
To some exact measurement,
Cleaving oceans and lakes with the
Palm of a hand, plucking the remnants of
Land like leftover pastry, pinching it,
Swirling it into the towering monuments above me,
Foreboding, framing, fastening everything
In its place.
![](https://brizomagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/12/Screen-Shot-2020-12-18-at-12.24.56-PM-1024x252.jpg)
Art by Jennifer van der Merwe