Atmosphere is the color of candles on my table at seven.
Everywhere, light lifts your parts, grows legs and walks your walk.
The stones here are small, soft, green as terrycloth towels.
They float, appear when things get too easy on your eyes
and you wish to just feel your way through the climate.

A place like this will fall through the bridge of your nose.

O, up they go to the mountains, climb on and float.
Gather them with your hands, in the manner of a maestro
to hear the way it sounds when you knocked on my door.
Make a bed of them to sleep on, their moss grows over you.
You become the same as stone, stone light, stone light.

Take in air all the way back down until you are no longer alone.

Each landform you see here is your personal storyteller,
listen to them with the intent of a serious filmmaker.
Trees grow thick in the east only to give the sunrise some time.
Their leaves are rare and clear. To dazzle here is to dapple!
Each citizen in these parts, a thinker, maker, doer, lover.
They do not know I was intense enough.