I Am the Mighty Mountain
I stand, the most statuesque, peeking through the clouds
that lend their softness as my pillow when sun in midnight drowns.
Golden sun, a fitting crown for a majesty such as me;
Somber moon, my nightcap; tundra stockings on my feet.
Veins of icy water; hair of snow drifts white.
I, the ladder Jacob dreamt of, one revealing night.
Would you climb and be my king, upon my peak to rest?
Or meet, descending from the heavens, doom's Angel of Death.
Dare to move me by your faith as the man from Galilee;
or does my might leave you in doubt to tremble on your knees?
Against my chest, Thor strikes his hammer; thunder fills your ears.
From my shoulders, he takes aim; arching lightening spears.
Haven to monstrous legends as the abominable snow beast;
hidden in tales of lore, on nonbelievers he does feast.
Bursting forth from earthen womb, a giant granite fountain.
Ancient tower of vast unknowns; I am the mighty mountain.
Copyright © Arlene Smith | Year Posted 2014
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