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West of Center

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Air has no buffer on the mountains,
wind has blown the mountains bare it seems.
Walking across the river
you would think yourself a savior
except the river is always dry.
When it does rain,
it does not smell like dirt and ground
a flower makes the air smell strange.
This is my west of center.
Topsy-turvy
Strange
The rivers are not rivers
The mountains are not mountains
I am not quite myself
Standing on a mountain side
I almost imagine my center
on an ocean, on a lake.
I imagine my center
frosting over
to be melted in the spring.
I imagine myself
centered.
I am myself someplace
in the west.
A place where I grow

Wild and Restless

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