12 April 2009

The Mountain

I see him every day,

Angled up to the sky

He looks dead still

His white face three miles high.

He looks like he doesn’t move

Jagged, lonely and cold.

His rocky, igneous bones

Five hundred thousand years old.

But I know how his frosted skin creeps.

Like icy inchworms down

Bit by frozen bit.

Melting to the ground.

I smell his hot sulfur breathe

Huffing through his cracks.

I feel his stony muscles

As I climb upon his back.

I hear his molten heart beating

From his stance, three miles tall.

He swells with pride to know he lives

And soon he’ll show us all.

OK. Mount Rainier is only 2.73 miles high. Not 3. Poetic discretion.

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