The Mountain’s Child
It began when I was young,
taken from the city
and placed upon her rocky spine.
Though many, with conviction,
call her wild—fierce, untamed,
a place children should fear,
I knew her only as mother.
When my lungs burned
from cigarette smoke,
from tar that stained the confining walls,
she unbound me, reaching deep into my chest,
clearing the stagnation,
drawing long, deep breaths from me,
returning air scented with pine and rain.
Clean. Alive.
When my ears ached
from the assault of curses, shouting, and rock ‘n’ roll
rattling through the halls,
she soothed them,
her breath a soft touch upon the leaves,
calling forth a choir of sweet melodies,
lifting me above the chaos.
When the stench of liquor
on his breath
lapped at my cheek with the promise of attack,
freezing my limbs in silent terror,
she unfurled herself,
a fortress of bark and greenery,
branches bending like arms,
hiding me within the canopy of her trees,
where no one could follow,
where I grew wings.
When my body shrank to hide
from anger,
from fights, the uncooked hamburger
thrown across the room,
she lifted my spine,
tilting my gaze from the floor to the horizon,
anchoring me with the weight of her presence,
roots sinking deep beneath my feet,
so I could rise,
tall, steady,
unbroken.
When my belly ached from TV dinners,
mashed potatoes shriveled to crust in the corners,
cranberry sauce collapsed into gelatinous goo,
she eased the pain with clover and honeysuckle,
nourishing me with blueberries,
with trout pulled fresh from the stream.
When the absence of a loving embrace
and the uncertainty of their return
weighed heavy on me,
she held me in the hollow of her hidden caves,
reminded me of strength,
let me etch my name into her living heart,
where it would remain.
Not a hardened crown to be feared,
but a mother of endless embrace,
she breathed life into my lungs,
smoothed the jagged edges of the noise,
gave me wings to flee the predators I knew,
showed me how to rise and stand tall,
fed my hunger,
quieted my trembling fears.
In the curve of her arms,
I was wholly, unshakably loved.
© Krystal Gauley
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| Krystal Gauley |
Krystal Gauley is a poet and creative nonfiction writer completing an MA in English and Creative Writing. Her work is rooted in landscape, memory, and embodied encounters with nature, exploring emergence, stillness, and personal transformation through breath, presence, and relationships with the natural world.
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