Pale figure
softness laid bare
to the maw of the earth-
those gnawing rocks
sharpened by the rain.
They do not frighten you.

Even still I picture the cold dawn
of spring painting the snowdrifts
and you
in a silent snapshot.

Would that I could join you there
to hear your breath mix with the wind
to feel the heat of the stones where you sit.
They cannot defeat you-
they envy you,
for you are so unlike them.

You are the ghost
of these limestone hills
and you haunt me.