New Year's Poetry

Nothing makes this a New Year's poem save the fact that I wrote it today. Unless, of course, gentle reader, you see something. That's art for you.

Mother of Mountains

The mountain mother crouched
and spread her legs, flanks heaving;
Surrounded by her children,
boulders to pebbles;
One and all to hear her grunt
And grimace;
Everests springing forth from her loins,
Holy and untameable.

What reaches for the sky
Cannot be kept in one womb.
She is the mother of mountains
And will not be denied.

First crowns the tip, ready for snow.
Then the great work
Of body and base,
Splitting her mouth wide open.
Granite, schist, and jasper,
Emerge blooded and pure.

Unstoppable, birthing like a glacier
Grinding down to the sea.
Tourmaline and garnets,
These rough treasures
From between her legs.

There is no altar
to the mountain mother;
She was here before
And will go on after,
Mothering mountains
In the hard and the cold.