Holy Mountain

How often does change, even positive change, feel like death?

With each step
Onto the holy mountain
I am slain.

By each fresh encounter
With a reality that overwhelms
My precious,
Worldview, I am broken.

Broken, broken again
By the love
Of which the mountain is made,

Skin from skin
By the claws of the eagle
Who knows
It’s impossible
To step
Without carrying your whole world with you
Unless that step
Is a death
And a transformation.

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