IT IS THE SUN

Jack’s Mountain, Pennsylvania
Photo by Joe Calzarette
Courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Old and green these ridges are
Light and shadow travel far
When they were new a stony sheath
White above and blue beneath

None of us will grow as old
They say that death is very cold
But others say that they have eyes
To see the life of one who dies

So that the rich and powerful
As dead become the sorrowful
Because they grieve for love they spurned
Or celebrate what love has earned

No more nor less than those deprived
Accounted meager when alive—
And what of mountains and their cover?
It is the sun which is their lover