Perhaps it does not hurt the ground
to be turned into mountain
but it cannot be comfortable
for when has anything
breathtaking
ever been formed in comfort
and not the pressure of
two stubborn plates playing chicken for keeps,
scarring glaciers grinding their descent
down slopes lubricated
only by their own melting essence,
roaring rivers preparing their path
as they take a shoulder here, carve a furrow there,
forever descending into dissolution.
