Fortitude
What fortitude a mountain
has, like an old man leaning
back in his bentwood rocker,
whittling a chunk of wood,
blond curls dropping to his feet,
each peel revealing layers
of resolve. Erosion can
do that to a mountain or
a man. What fortitude lies
within the slope, the foothill,
the hard scrabble of riprap,
the gully wash of pine straw
and last year’s leaves puddling
in the ditch and crevices,
the alluvial complaint
that can be plainly seen from
any distance. Any man can
stand up the way a mountain
can dominate the landscape,
abruptly upright and present.