Now when we look at the mountain,
The gouge is almost all we see —
what’s amiss, what’s gone wrong,
like a beer can in a trout fresh stream,
the crooked tooth in a smile,
ears a mite large, sticking out,
those growing specks of doubt
in our kisses, in our eyes,
off to the corner of our love.
They gouged the mountain
for a power line — a tidy brown strip,
compared to the whole wide green of it.
©James L. Ralston