Rejoice

  

Tear down that sculpted,

perfect mountain that lives in your head.

Its intimidation is not for all,

and most certainly not for you.

It won’t tell you of its jagged faults

and glacier-scoured rock, and will

surely not whisper of the legions of fallen snags

and centuries of eroded pebbles and sand

that are now missing. All lost to gravity,

drawn somewhere downhill.

 

Scores of acres lie scorched and bared by fires.

Scarred firs still trying to fully breathe, tremble

in winter winds up past the scree slopes

on its southeast side.

Legions of beetles chew into the bark

of its sheltering forests, killing the branched

beings with a million tiny torturous bites.

Delivered daily in unison

 

That perfect mountain’s stone heart once flowed.

Growing upward from the depths as molten

magma, its heart did finally stop. It cooled

and lay hardened for eons

and grew no more.

 

It casts a mighty silhouette.

Impressive and prominent, sometimes snow-topped

with orange and red hues in, “the golden hours of the day.”

But it is succumbing to earth’s eternal pull.

 

Your seemingly mighty and tall mountain is far from perfect.