There it is my own mountain with a mouth open at its top , a hole in a childhood village where monks lived for peace.These late poems breath life to the old choked with bare trees.
A good old poet sets about re-ordering pines, avoiding the clutter of the top clouds,
to be free of unseasonal rain with resultant mud to sky. Rain drowns a pine’s loneliness at the top, late poems are about.
Krishna’s mountain frees us from pebble rain of angry gods when we are down in its under,what our late poems are about.