Old Man Mountain
His skin is cold, but reassuring.
So very, very solid.
He’s so present, it makes me feel dead already.
Why is that strangely comforting?
I run a hand lovingly along his creases,
And press against the cold.
“Hey, Old Man. How goes it?”
Under my hand, I feel my own pulse
Hot and transient.
It beats into the stone
But I can feel the resonance within.
“How long has it been, Old Man?
How long since someone spoke to you?”
The answer comes up soft and deep
The answer is beat back in my pulse
The answer is longer than anything I could comprehend.