You do not have to travel far
to get to the edge of the mountains near your home,
to bring them in your sight,
In the spring and summer they are green,
but not this time of year. No, they are raw
and you can see far into the hills, see
the rough stones that litter the ridges,
black pock marks hidden by spring,
but here, in the winter, boldly evident.
They are not exactly scars on the mountain,
rather part of them, part of the strange beauty
of dead seasons, what is left when the leaves are stripped away,
the truth of them
and to love the mountains is to love the scars
as much as the rolling green of gentler seasons.
About this poem
What we are is far more than what people see. When we can share our scars safely, we know we are loved.
The picture was taken in the quarry across from my house in West Pawlet, VT.