Mountain Meditation / Joshua Alan Sturgill
morning cold
the early watchman
calls the hour
sun-gilt tree, birds
who sing their search
to waking stones
eyes may close, but ears
remain thirsty
for truths between
the day's anticipations.
Whisper to my skin
morning wind, call
juniper, fiery oriole,
weathered rock the color
of a black man's palm
O mountain cathedral
something here
is what the soul is made of
All poetry and supplementary material: copyright 2026 by Joshua Alan Sturgill. All rights reserved.
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