Of Mountains and Microbes
We are comparative microbes, insignificant
of thought and deed. Diminished by
the raging peak, the ragged arrowhead,
laceration poised to rip the membrane of the
sheltering sky and make it bleed.
How many have braved the ascent, ticks
on the silver rock-whales’ spine? Driven to
conquer the unconquerable, flags of futility
harpooned into the summit nonchalance,
some purpose or meaning to define.
“Because it’s there.” What reason
this to assail the ancient king? Mountains don’t
care what microbes do; is this what separates us,
curses us Natures’ outcasts,
our unknowing of everything?
Reflected upon the glass lake surface, still as
deaths’ face. An ominous
doppelganger, snow-capped colossus remote on liquid,
twin peaks of perfect symmetry,
attuned to time and space.
All may be an illusion, optic smoke,
for have the fish not already swam to the top? And descended
the other side; despite all the intellect
of microbes we are quick to tilt at nothing
and we know not when to stop.
Copyright © Tony Bush | Year Posted 2006
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