The Mountains

Sometimes, I think I see the mountains breathe,

though I know it is a trick of the mist,

undulating under the full moon.

And I know that it is just

the capacity of the human mind

for pattern recognition,

and the mountains are not truly

curved like a woman’s hip,

her chest and face.

There are not goddesses,

sleeping in stone, sleeping under green,

but sometimes…

well, the eyes play tricks.

 

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