The mountain doesn’t look like a mountain
when it’s all painted up with leaves and acorns
and leftover drops of sun.
It’s more an artwork on canvas,
something that I can appreciate but not feel squashed by.
It’s when it’s stark and white,
only its sharpness and jagged edges to display
that my head decides to landslide
and any progress I’ve made
erases itself until
the next leaf fall.