Mountain Poem

Climbing the mountain we're shameless, we say
"Bless you, bug, I must pass by!"

Camped at the top we tune our tone
to match the pitch of a hovering bee.

Rocks on an outward ridge look like penguins
ready to dive — they think it's an ice floe

this slow wide spaceship
disguised as a mountain.

Then who flits by? — three magicians from Italy!
(passing, in drag, as three white butterflies,

show-offy drunks so dizzy on spirals
you'd think they would have to be seven, or four).

High on the mountain we're tempted to soar,
we who are dangerously bio-degradable,

drawn to all fluttery methods of joy,
taking our time on the way to the valley.

© Barry Spacks