When plates shift, we all must dance to their slow music.
The holy high places are laid low - but - oh, music!

I’m calling out, a small thing among these hills:
are you close enough, if you hear, to know music?

Where I grew up, the mountains had imported names.
They knew their older names in winter-snow-music.

You would be salt for the roads, warmth for the journey;
would I be pilgrim enough, though, Music?

I’ll chip away at the rock face, blow by blow
and find - in me - a safe place to stow music.

I have ears, limbs, two good lungs. I have the words!
But Fraser, you risk an avalanche! You must forgo music.

(for a description of the rules of the ghazal form, click here.)