Chosen Not Chosen

We ascend, drawn to the mountain’s silence,
its call sharp as winter’s breath.
The summit gleams, distant and aloof,
while the plain, soft-shouldered, waits below.

The plain offers its expanse,
a cradle of grasses bending in the wind,
its rivers murmuring of belonging,
but our eyes are on the heights.

The mountain reaches, stone by stone,
for the open arms of the earth.
And the plain, wide and generous,
dreams of the mountain’s steadfast embrace.

We wander between these longings,
hearts anchored in absence,
blind to the hands that reach for us—
the ones who name us home.

What does it mean to choose or be chosen?
The mountain stands because the plain holds it;
the plain endures because the mountain shelters the rain.
Each shape exists for the other,
yet they never see their union.

If we could rest, for just a moment,
in the valley’s gentle fold,
we might know this:
the ground beneath us always chooses,
even as we strive for what lies beyond.