Recumbent

The mountain lies stretched out

in light of spring,

settled back under snow-filled scars.

It has suffered fire and farmer,

been shaved by loggers,

gouged and hauled away by quarries.

Still its hairs grow

at their cosmic pace,

its muscles sweat clear streams

and ripple in the sun even at their ease.

Our days flip past like mayflies

and we wonder where the time went.

The mountain stretches sleepily,

embodying an ancient mocking dare.

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