The Mountains' Shirts Have Holes Saturday, April 13, 2019

The mountains rest.

They sleep peacefully, happily, unstirringly night and day.

They rest as the wind blows and bellows across.

The trees leave them be.

They dig their roots into their skin,

into their flesh,

but they don’t mind.

The trees,

in becoming part of them,

turn into their clothes.

The imperfect canopy reveals their rocky skin.

Their shirts have holes.