My Mountain

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The glass aches and screams in the bone chilling wind, winter whispers hungrily at my window. Like a dragon puffing smoke I blow onto the ice. My fingers freeze as they trace memories of the warm sun through my foggy breath. The sugar plum fairies have joined Jack Frost to bestow frosting like luscious icing everywhere on the hillsides. The world is frozen under the soft blanket of silence. It is snowing and my mountain mumbles in winter’s sleep.

The foothills tumble and roll like waves in an ocean breeze. Shift your gaze to follow a returning flock of geese, they cry to each other renewing friendships long set sail. There… you can see my sister’s mountain. Anne has Roxy Ann, the hillbilly of the hills, Roxy is an elegant young lady, bubbly and spouting joy with her arms outstretched embracing the valley. My mountain is an ancient king; mystery mixed majestically masters his memory. He quivers as his winter cloak melts away leaving him fresh for the spring days.

Frost melts into dew drops on fresh spring leaves and my mountain is clad like one of Robin Hood’s men. Warm rain refreshes the auburn summer grasses waving from my mountain, as thunderheads billow like Mother Nature’s crown on his head. Fall falls away leaving branches bare, winter returns dropping snow in the air.
My mountain is wrapped in morning mists, gallantly shining in the daylight’s sun; I smile at it in the evening glow or glimpse it in starlight long ago. One mountain seen again and again always there like a long lost friend.





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