Mountains

Winds blow through the lands of the past,
Stabbing through the coats of the present.
Lands erupt with the fertility within them,
Erupted lands bare their whiteness on them present.

Brimming of greens with flecks of rainbow shades,
The same turns yellow, brown, gray, auburn.
Multishade of gray spreads when the weather refuses
to paint with the brightness of the sun.

Lives live with forever change
Minds adjust to live with the lives.
Eyes flicker with beauties that lay
Openly bare, overflow to thrive.

Mountains shed their clothes, their coat designs changing.
Fashion seasons of summer, spring, autumn and winter.
Sometimes picasso, almost leonardo,
monet, gogh, keffe, tagore, rousseau.

Painter or a poet personalizes a mountain
Modify reality suiting their imagination.
Mountain stands there austere and serene,
Naked, clothed, whatever maybe weather’s fascination.

Ask a mountain what it is,
You will get no answers.
No stories to tell of who climbed, who fell,
no heroism, no bells.

Only people make stories
to make mountains interesting.
As if being there isn’t enough
to pacify our dull senses seeking glory.

Mountains don’t seek glory, not waiting to be climbed
Not wanting to be called difficult or challenging.
Standing there quietly, letting weather play,
showcasing events impassively, peaceful or foreboding.

Ask mountains what they are,
You will get no answers.
The weather continues to play.
Play with our questions and answers.