Cold wind across the eastern ridges
pushes me back from my northern
windows, sending a shiver through my chest
as real as standing on rocks exposed
by the loss of leaves along the hundreds
of miles shoved up by tectonic forces.
My life is as a tic of the eye in view
of ancient inching of masses of earth
that move gigantic rock, subject to even
greater brute inevitability. My soft being
cannot relate in time with olde events
existing without emotion or empathy.
The hills and valleys erode and redirect
in their own time, without kinship to my
admiration and artistic wonderings
at such majesty, a one-way mentalism.
Even the bare trees ignore my angles
of composition as they reach for the sky.
Future humans will find similar
images if their own conditions
are stable enough for curiosity
at things existing unknowingly.
Or my optimism is misplaced
and only the firmament will survive.
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