A day as spent as weak muscles and worn hands.
Pine walls holding wind’s force and mountain’s strength,
Noisy resistance, bristling needles stabbing solitude.
He had never been so loudly alone, or poorly unequipped.
Collapsed on a turret of boulder,
He sees his destination and feels his downfall.

Downfall from a tremendous mountain.
His moon brushed teeth shined at the thought
This is a mountain.
The shriveled peddler had dropped a smile when he thought
His backyard hill might be called a mountain
By a man that couldn’t find a toothbrush for less.

A man that chewed on his jelly bread,
Marinating in loneliness,
Surrounded by the grandest guardians, protected from biting air,
Solitude ensured.
No brush or bag, just needles and blades.
The moon would fall a few degrees before morning.