Would I could recall and savor
the striking moment
I came to know of mountains.
Not lowland’s timid rolling hills,
adorned with scant veneer
of weeds, cement and green-grass lawns,
but lofty pinnacles that scratch the sky
with unyielding granite,
against whose might
the setting sun itself does daily yield—
Its bluster damned in mute dismay.
Yet there faintly linger,
among the tangled ganglia
of my mind, images and feelings…
of summits gained, and all the world below,
that I might behold
have no need to remember.
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2013
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