two lost tales (of what may be)

I
sitting with mountains
garrulous clouds
spruce, climb-climbing
up halfway to the peak
the leaking, star-saturated sky
falls shuddering
to blossom again in rivulets
near the edge of the valley
these days make us
breathe out
from our ancient
hiding places

II
parched for weeks
transposing our cries
onto leaves, trimmed and folded
of thinking we've had our fill
no one remembers the time
we called the ground "heaven"
poor men of sad countenance
even a soul with gold fixtures
misses the mark
in a country where
the birds are no longer honored
the wisdom of suffering
no longer sought