Naked Mountain
Carved out of granite she lies still;
mottled by the ages and winter’s chill,
colossal lady disrobed by autumn’s breath
exposes her rugged skin, me Lady Beth.
Naked Mountain is what she becomes,
aged by many and many more suns.
Her summer leaves turn to an eerie brown
as they lie upon the frozen ground.
She weeps frozen tears in the frigid cold,
down her ancient cheeks a billion years old.
She calls to me from her domestic prisons
to free her from such climatizing divisions.
As the seasons grow apart from each other,
she strays from her newly acclimated mother.
She lies still and watches nature run its course,
storming in and from who knows what source;
the cold, the north, the warm, the south,
winter, summer, straight from the mouth,
as the wind sweeps over the mountain
and decides what me Lady Beth should wear.
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