My mountain is snow capped in winters and slopes
Gently towards a frozen tear of a lake. In summers
The mountain is grey, save for a few tufts of grass.

It’s a big rock, a piece of granite no one but me gets
Lyrical about. Somehow it’s massive ugliness appeals
And I can sense a soul that longs for beauty

In early mornings it has streaks of tears, shed when
Loneliness became acute and I make no comments,
But listen to its inner hum.

The homely mountain has accepted me, yesterday I
Found a tiny flower in a crack and a seven leafed
Clover didn’t pick them though.

And when the sun submerges beyond the great
Ocean where no one but God hears a seagull’s angst,
My silent rock has the merest hint of shy coloration.