For Centuries
the Mountain stood in sculpted mold
To mark the valley of the Sanpitch,
Loved and known
By me from early sight.
High and deep on the lofty range
Long and tapered slabs of stone
are formed in strange
Near likeness to a horseshoe,
giant and bent,
Pressed into the Mountain crest
Seasons paint between the stones
a mound of white,
of colored flora, or misty shroud of blue.
At this mound I stand in quiet mood,
To lose my thoughts in silence
of the altitude.
And I prize the experience as my own.
Yet I surely know, in ages gone,
Red men and white have walked upon
The valley floor and the towered height,
And marveled at the different stone design.
In the future there again will be someone
Standing in awesome solitude,
Wondering about the phenomenon
Existing here through centuries gone.
