Avalanche in the Alps (Philippe de Loutherbourge), Sonnet #474

My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here:
My Human Disguise.








Each avalanche is renewal.

At times men or whole forests die

When mountainsides shudder and fall

In great slabs and showers of scree.

A single step’s been known to start

A cataclysm, one small stone

Displacing another and one

Larger opening up a fault.

What’s left is a new rapprochement

With gravity, rearrangement

Of the ageless, immovable 

Granite face and tiny pebble.

Never, though, is any grandeur

Made — all things go through the grinder.