Her Perfect Mountain
A lady I knew travelled the world
looking for the perfect mountain,
the most pleasing shape that
would attract her uplifted eyes.
She was an atheist, perhaps
in her own way she was looking for God.
Many mountains came close to perfection,
but none were impeccable enough for her.
Sitting on rocking chairs
on a cabin porch in West Virgina,
she confided all this to me.
It was a fine day,
snowy cumulus clouds,
rose like mountain ranges
in a backdrop of deep cerulean, blue.
One tall cloud was particularly outstanding.
As she looked up, she gasped,
in a low voice exclaimed, "God."
Then and there,
her spirit found its perfect mountain.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2025
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment