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.
