The Old Man of the Mountain
by W.S. Brewbaker
Fell, after centuries. The hard forehead
and squared nose. The chin. All of him.
Crumbled. Created by gravity and wind
and shattered by the same. His stone face
an accident of erosion, nothing more. But clung
to like a promise. For these are the things we do
to survive: find wrinkles in the barks of oaks.
Call branches arms. Frown at our own sagging
chests and name them trunks. Refusing to level
or admit. Shouting down the whisper
that we, too, must then be accidents.
Gyroscope Review 5!