Sage

Isn’t there supposed to be 
a sage at the summit,
perched on the peak,
meek and wise 
with eyes that see through time 
and pithy words 
to make it worth the climb?

But there is only rock, and wind, and quiet.
And not much green to speak of,
sage or otherwise.

The view, though—
stretching out and down 
across cascading waves of stone 
to the timberline,
then on to the valley below,
where the people and the troubles are.

They all seem small from here.
The fences disappear 
and green runs into green,
all shades and hues:
the almost-blues of spruce 
give way to willows 
lining fields of burgeoning grain,
bowed down by rain.

And there is sage,
though not a lot.

And there’s my plot 
at the edge of town,
I see it now and must go down.