On The Change Proceeding Down A Mountain From A Sunny, Autumn Morning To A Rainy One Poem by Nathaniel A.Wallace

Nothing looks good in the shadow of a mountain, when it's near,
The rolling slopes are minutely covered in trees,
Which are generally the tall, ashen pines, mourning their age -
More slender than the legs of any human, and more fair
To lay soft needle beds in wuthering climes
To buffer, step and fall, on mountainside.
No, we have no chance to contend this, when they're close,
We rely solely on the heavens to dictate
Our chances, for every new day we awake,
If to leave behind our indoor constraints,
If to reawaken - this, the argument's crux
In renewing ourselves, our countenance
Each time we open our eyes,
And following it to (no, not making) wherever it goes;
Mountains are not oppressive - they do not need to be -
Slanting away is quite the opposite in the dark,
Between distinctive trees, all long is the way to the top
And far, what's more, necessarily, steep;
Here the rain is to blame for eroding it - I swear, that this the time
They retract to obscurity, so that you cannot
Distinguish young from high, or differing, trees.

The world of the mountain is simpler than ours:
There is no suspicion, but everywhere,
Or juxtaposition, but between the behemoths -
Not of our concern, too big or small -
But it is a nostalgic site of memory, of recollection
Wondering, at every look out, "What if not-"
These I never answered, ere my humility allows,
I can take advantage of the fact, now
But do not - these slopes are too diverting;
And even the city sprawl is beatified by my position here
As the warm, meandering rivers of light
Move synchronized with the vicissitudes of life,
As does passing my hand before my eyes
And to proceeding;
Yet hardly an adventure,
It is a weak imitation of the true snow-thing
That comes of mountain water, shimmering down
In rivulets and rivers, and streams -
Flirting waterfalls among the nooks of rocks, all the while
The rippling brook is navigating - that we knew,
Save the still and silent bush and trees
Of age old consciousness - then momentarily parts the way
To valleys, soft and bright,
Where with we lay.