If not for mountains

The pressure is forgotten. Rocks are still here though. Older boulder heads jutted out from the hillside.
Flipping birds off to the blue sky.
Lichened into smiling, sharpened grins slicing shoes.
Leftovers of weight chewed up by time.
Root gripped and green grass headed.
The pressures that shaped their minds far behind.
Barely scarcely remembered been so dismembered.
So it is easier to sow seeds in dirt and let
soil tell the story. Of mountains. Mounting pressure.
And time. Of boulders and great massif crowns
and lichen the color of lime eyes spread open wide. Upholding the sky.
Which might be much lower otherwise.
The sky may even come down all the way
and touch the ground
if not for mountains.

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