Drifted deep in wintry dark
she's in decline, as useless
as a sailboat in a hurricane.
Once a haven for hikers,
a shelter for stalwarts and strays
'til the mountain gave summons,
now forlorn and disregarded,
like a maiden aunt, too old and without purpose,
though winsome in her former days
when she was quite the prize,
the belle of every ball, envied by all.
"If those walls could speak!" they say,
as the hikers pass her by,
never offering a second glance.