I am the rock at the top of the mountain,
Battered by gusting, wild, keening winds,
Looking out over valleys and winding roads.
The seasons molt beneath my feet,
Changing day by day with the birds, with the trees,
In the ground, and in the folds of the land.
And so years pass by. A century is as nothing.
People carve their names into my age-old stone and go,
But I am content to be where I am.
The summit of Humpback Rock, which I just hiked yesterday.
Blue are the mountains
and blue is the lake.
White is the sand
and yellow the sun.
Brown is the grass
when it refuses to rain.
Heat has come in the summer.
Orange are pumpkins
and orange the trees.
Brown are the branches
and yellow the leaves.
Red is the apple
and juicy the corn.
Harvest has come in the fall.
Gray is the sky
and gray is the smoke.
White is the snow
and yellow the grass.
Brown are the trees
and they have no leaves.
Cold has come in the winter.
Green is the grass
and green are the trees.
Blue is the sky
and yellow a weed.
Red are the tulips
among dozens of flowers.
Rain has come in the spring.
Posted in God's Creation, My Poetry, Outdoors/Nature
