Autobiography of A Face

The eagles perch on my wrinkles.
Facial hair of moss, grown over decades.
Rain has worn me down, now I slip away
into a gorge. A river runs through.
I take my steps slowly, winding through the
mountains and gripping the peak.
The trees that have emerged, like happy blemishes,
reach out to grab the last droplets of sunlight.
Time affects me little, but the climbers
blister my hide with spray paint, hooks and ropes,
they are changing me with every foothold.
A dark shadow cast by thunderstorms gently rises on
my skin. My fears are met by miners, who
thrash about with heavy machinery—clawing and scarring me
for the treasures found within. I’ll take my time and remember
what it was like back then. When the hordes of man had yet
to leave the jungles and meadows, when I was visited
only by beasts and things. When I was a nest and not a
resource.