Upon the ridge, the watching pine,
Does guard above us rolling fog.
Blanketing the saplings reaching,
Until the ground does turn to marble.
Above, the stormy ashen sky,
Does beckon for a new beginning.
Reminding of a day beginning,
As sunlight streamed through open pine,
For once we see a crystal sky.
Behind us, rock in shrouded fog.
Cappuccino ground dusted with marble,
Path before us, altitude reaching.
As though by chance, temperature reaching,
As we set out, a day beginning,
Our footsteps like chisels on new marble.
Trees shift to welcome, aspen to pine,
An open sun clears mourning fog,
Soft white flakes, weeping of the sky.
Above and within resides the sky.
Further we climb, summit reaching.
Writer's Block fades like early fog,
Listen close, a phrase beginning.
Built upon the jacks: flap, whiskey and pine.
Set in mental stone of marble.
Woe for us, the sun's gaze turns marble,
Blue, blue-grey, now gray, an icy sky.
The wind does whistle through the pine
Bare, scarred branches above us reaching.
Around us, a flurry beginning,
Aspirations lost to the fog.
Yet inspiration does not flee through fog.
No Block descends like Headsman's marble
"Upon the ridge," the poem's beginning.
Above us lies an empty sky.
Even as icy fingers reaching,
We trudge ahead for solace in the pine.
And still the fog does fill the pine,
Like veins of marble reaching.
Yet pen's beginning protects inside sky.
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