The bald mountains wear
evergreen shawls,
fashionable
in every season.
In the subtle sun,
peaks of unformed dough
powdered with snow
ready to be rolled,
by the Master chef.
Outcrops emerge, globs
of clay beginning
to feel the scrape
of the Sculptor’s tools.
Millennium pass
before masterpieces
are finally made.
Round the lake, rivers
of roots continue
to lace and flow.
The forking branches
stencil névé snow.
Lime and carmine fringe
frame the perfect wreath.
I didn’t dare yell
to tell the forest
all celebrations
had long since passed.
That we were growing
used to our masks.
So I whispered it
to pastel pink rocks,
abstaining themselves,
wise to withstand
moss and memory.
Hard to wave goodbye
to queen mountain,
proud in her white ruff.
She may act tough
but she’s figurehead
for the harder crests
peaking themselves
on the glacier lake’s
frozen Januar.
Eibsee, Bavaria—Photos taken yesterday @xtinatravels
Yard Sale of Thoughts 