Even mountains need to rest from their work
of shouldering the sky, of bearing cumulous
buckets on the slanting yoke of treeline
where snow and ice teetered all winter.
So on this cloudless summer morning,
you crack your ridged back to release
tension from each knobby vertebra,
stretch out your rocky legs and cross
one green-timbered ankle over the other,
then lean back with hands behind your head
to admire the endless blue of this good view.
At some point you doze, and all I see are
bony elbows jutting to either side of your
barrel chest, a shadow of scrub grass
in the craggy folds of your armpits.
I watch your ribs expand, contract,
inhaling and exhaling sunlight as your
collegiate majesty welcomes Sabbath.