Perhaps I never stopped to look
or all the days were days of hurry,
of running with news, running too fast.
Or did I see it once
and ever after take it for granted -
never gave it a second glance -
the passive mountain, far-off but in view -
clear and visible from my city window.
Its evening silhouette is the contour
of a forest, taller every year.
Sometimes it blocks the sun, in snow-time
it becomes a cold white altar.
All my life it has been there - that glimpse
of distant peaks, a vista I was given
between two corners of a street.
That same old street
where I took a thousand steps
and met my first enchantress.