Ire of the Mountain

By Max Wagner

Each day they lie, still and silent

Watching the eons go by Yet the mountaintops can still be violent As ashes cloud the sunless sky

Each day they sit and let trees grow Watching tiny creatures pass Yet chasms open and crevices show Claiming lives like blades of grass

Time passes by them and they seem so still Monolithic and static as the moon

Yet the forming of even just a small hill Would be not forgotten so soon

They speak not loud in the tongues of rock

These living titanic spires

Yet all will hear their sound with shock

When they face the mountain’s ires