On that tiny area of the rock;
Jutting out of the snow clad mountain
I sit gingerly; consuming the scene around me
I can feel the chill on my butt; yet still I sit
Hugging myself; relishing the cold;
On my earlobes and my nose tip.
The crisp wind; pushing oxygen so fresh;
Lungs confused; not being used to such purity…
Yet the feeling is beautiful
The moment is mine; only mine.
The fluffy clouds; the big blue sky,
The emerald green mosses; the icy blue of snow
The lenticulars; like a crown on the mountain’s head
The stillness, the silence; broken regularly by the biting wind.
They are all mine; at least for now.
I pinch a tiny speck of snow and feel it in my hand
From where did they come?
What would happen to them?
Who all did they touch? What all did they see?
As I wonder; the snow melts in the warmth of my fist
Just like the snow; we appear from nowhere
Seeing lots; touching many
Clinging on at times; letting go sometimes
Stubborn like hail at times; melting when the sun shines bright
|Lenticular on a ice capped mountain in Iceland.|