Reposing here for centuries,
This mountain in a sculptured mold
Marked the valley of the Sanpitch, loved
By me for all my years. High
On the slanting front of dappled green,
White shafts of stone present a rare
Resemblance to a horseshoe, giant, bent,
Pressed into the mountainside below its crest.
Near this shrine I kneel to lose myself
In silken silence of the pulsing altitude.
I prize the experience as my own, yet know
That red men and white have walked upon
The valley floor and towered height
To marvel at the pattern of stone.
In future aeons someone else will ascend
This ridge to gaze in wonderment and awe
At this same phenomenon.
by Pearl M. Olsen from her book: Frame the Laced Moments
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