Contributor: JD DeHart

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There is a mountain standing in
the middle
of my soul, waiting at the moment

I am met with a brush of the hand.

There is a hidden place in me
that no wind will root out, a palace
where trees enclose,

they stand guard, ice crystals
snap them, but a thousand more grow
back,

this mountain goes deep,
down to the world’s center,

down to the nexus of where
it all began.


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