A tribute poem to the old man in the mountain in New Hampshire |
ODE TO THE OLD MAN IN THE MOUNTAIN It is the morning of May fourth two thousand and three And I stare at a horrific sight Because on the mountain I can no longer see Something I have seen many times before; That was shrouded in mysterious lore, But now it doesn't seem right That it is gone while it was night. Iam in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, Staring above at an empty space; Seeing nothing but air And feeling coldness I never felt, While my heart begins to melt, my eyes begins to look for the place Where once was the old man's face. I am now at the shore of Profile like And all around me is shattered rock That in me I begin to ache As the reality settles in And my eyesight is thin, As I am still in shock at seeing all this cold block. After all he has been through He had to meet his end this day When a late Spring snowstorm blew And he toppled from his perch, And now within I search; Even for one little way For words in which to pray. But what words can you begin to use To describe the emptiness you feel When over and over you hear the news Of the Old Man in the Mountain's demise; It is like out of New Hampshire's heart you took a slice, But right away you have to kneel To remember the Old Man's face and then you begin to heal. |