Hills Heal

I have a friend,

who loves hills and mountains.

Anywhere he goes,

he finds a hill to climb.

“There’s only one way to the top—

keep going up,” he says.

“I was meant to be a Sherpa,

but God knew I’d be a menace to the Yetis.”

He laughs at his lame jokes,

while we roll our eyes.

He tells the story of a demon king

who lifted a mountain

to earn a boon from God.

He speaks of Zarathustra

and the tree on the hill,

where growth meets solitude,

roots deep in wisdom.

We joke he’s a Nietzsche in the making,

to which he replies,

“My mind has caved into itself a long time ago—

when I first saw the horses whipped to death

while pulling a train up the mountain

in that animated movie.”

Jokingly, but all too serious.

Always dragging our small group

on hikes and treks,

with tales of hills being alive

and lectures on mountains

being the path to nirvana.

Still, in the quiet moments,

we feel it too—

the way the air shifts,

how the world feels lighter,

how hills hold our secrets

and remind us we’re alive.

In the embrace of nature,

we find ourselves anew;

hills heal,

and in their shadows,

we learn to rise.