Hour Nine

Lonely Mountain


Granite, cragged and shrouded

like a white-scarfed grandmother,

the mountain looks over the shoulders of trees,

past the crumbling rushes,

into the still green water.


Autumn on the mountain is frigid,

cold seeps from the bones of the earth

into your bones and mine, while the wailing wind moans

“they left me here”

“they left me here”

“they all left here without me.”

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *