The Mountain’s Whisper
I stood on the shoulder of a winter mountain,
snow biting my cheeks,
wind curling its cold fingers into my bones.
The silence was heavy—
a weight of unspoken words
pressing against the ribs of my chest.
Icicles hung like unshed thoughts,
clear and sharp,
threatening to fall if I moved too suddenly.
The valley below lay quiet,
as if the world itself had turned away
from whatever I might say.
I wrapped my voice in frost and shadows,
convinced no ear would hear it kindly.
The air was thin.
Breath was hard.
And still, the words pressed at my lips,
small birds trapped in a storm.
But then—
the wind shifted,
lifting the snow in a swirl of light.
It brushed my ear with a whisper:
Speak.
The sound escaped me,
a thread of warmth in the frozen air.
It caught the wind’s attention,
and the mountain’s echoes leaned in to listen.
One word became another,
and my voice grew wings of fire and feather.
The snow no longer bit;
it danced.
The wind no longer stole my breath;
it carried it.
And the valley below filled with color,
each syllable a petal unfurling into bloom.
I was not alone—
I had never been alone.
The earth heard me.
The sky held me.
And I spoke until the cold broke open,
until the mountain roared my song
back to me, twice as strong.
I left my fear in the snowmelt,
flowing down into the river’s wild laugh.
Now, wherever I walk,
my voice runs ahead of me like sunlight—
free, fearless,
and heard.
Offer whatever name you wish to be known by at the hearth today — real or imagined — we look forward to welcoming your words into the circle.
