There is a snow-kissed mountain,
So pasty in white, it seemingly glows,
Looming there at such a height,
It’s only measurable from the toes.
The peak is not quite so pointed,
As it is a curve, sloping away,
Into a forest of black oak trunks,
Standing tall, and gently, they sway.
They line the mountain from top to bottom,
Especially the bottom, on lazy days.
Rooted deep into the earthen skin,
Until the forest is set to raze.
Specifically so, as the blades appear,
Slicing the trunks into matted fuzz.
A forest felled and blown to pass,
It rains violently as it does.
But the downpour stops, the whiteness glows,
Along each mountainous fold and groove,
I drag my hands along the surface, with a smile.
Because, finally, my legs are razor smooth.
About the Creator
em
I’m a writer, a storyteller, a lunatic. I imagine in a parallel universe I might be a caricaturist or a botanist or somewhere asleep on the moon — but here, I am a writer, turning moments into multiverses and making homes out of them.
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