Being an old man climbing old mountains with my companion
I am a speck of dust walking up and down the bedrock remains
Worn down from great heights over hundreds of millions of
years
Because everything is temporary.
I can count millions of minutes if not years in my life
Count tens of thousands of days
Measuring longevity, meaning nothing
Like waves speaking white noise upon the shore.
The measure of a person is not a number
Found on old gravestones listing exactly how many days,
months and years
Eroded inscriptions one hundred years later blurred
contours
Whispering to the wind soughing in the pines.
From the escarpment ridge looking out into the distance
The long view to the horizon presents a panorama larger than
life
So beautiful to behold under a cloudless sky
So wonderful to partake.
