
See the mountain snow, especially in spring
That’d clung to crags, now tumbles down the slope
Like a mountaintop thunderstorm in hope
Of rushing to its base: another thing
That happens on a fault line when you sing
A faulty song, invoking on the slope
Negations to the rain-dance, saying nope
To every limitation clouds could bring.
Your eyes were like the crystal pools that gloat
High among the rocky mount Olympus’ peaks
And glisten with the cold and empty skies—
Wishing up high we could frisk about at sunrise,
And graze along the craggy peaks for weeks
With all the nimble boing of mountain goats.
About the Creator
Rob Angeli
sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt
There are tears of things, and mortal objects touch the mind.
-Virgil Aeneid I.462
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