made of molehills
stands its ground as
it’s slammed with storms
and shrouded with clouds.
Some admire its beauty while
others are appalled by its presence.
But regardless of what others may think
or what the mountain endures, it continues on.
It still remains rooted in the Earth and takes the hits,
facing admiration, indignation, raging storms as the clouds
block its view all while surrounded by the silence of judgment.
The mountain can take it and stays true to itself, never swaying.
The willows will waver when the withering wind wages on and on,
but not the mountain – it does not bow to the winds or storms or pressures,
nor does it care who admires its beauty or who is appalled by its mere presence.
Eventually, the storms cease, the clouds clear, and all passes, but only one remains;
the mountain itself is all that remains after all that passes – nothing will change it from being.