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.

Ages.

Ages.

Ages.