mountains or sea

They give me a choice: the mountains or sea.

How do I pick, when they're both within me?

I admire the mountain. She's strong and she's sure.

She's quiet and gentle, she -- rooted -- endures.

The sea has not roots, nor soil, nor pine.

She's wild, unruly, and deep by design.

She'll swallow you up, though your masts are of steel.

Wooden planks splinter 'neath her tempest-tossed zeal.

The sea's heart, it rages. It roils, it churns. She's

turbulence mastered. Her charts are unlearned.

Though maybe the two aren't dichotomous foes?

But share more in common than anyone knows.

It's true that the sea might dash you 'pon rocks.

But she's drawn, despite chaos, to the safety of docks.

The mountain, though stable, she winds and she turns.

What's beast and what's timberline oft can't be discerned.

There's more to the ocean, the further you go,

and less to the mountain, whose vapidity grows. 

So don't make me choose between mountain or sea, 

as the worst parts of both are the worst parts of me.

But the best parts of them, both stable and free,

are the true north I strive for, 

the wisdom I seek.

[Megan Lynn Tocci]