As a mountain I sit.
With melting roots
and frozen hair.
Owls circle passed
and rodents burrow in
As trees grow and fall.
Children toboggan to
Houses down below
to comfy winter smoke.
Glaziers grow
flowing away to sea
And back again to falling snow.
As a mountain I sit
And often think
Is there a next?
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Beautiful.
ReplyDeleteThere is always a "next"... You just need to find that thing/person/entity to move you. Perhaps your "mountain mover" is pondering the same. Lovely poem - deep and eloquent.
ReplyDeleteRight you are, a circle is a line, I should know.
ReplyDeletevery deep and elequent!You have a creative genious in you.Imagination recollectin in tranquility.Keep modifing. bring unity.You will be famous one day.i must follow you.
ReplyDeleteFollow me too ..i can be of someuse to you some day..
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