Ode To The Old Man In The Mountain

ODE TO THE OLD MAN IN THE MOUNTAIN

It is the morning of May fourth two thousand and three
And I stare at a horrific sight
Because on the mountain I can no longer see
Something I have seen many times before;
That was shrouded in mysterious lore,
But now it doesn't seem right
That it is gone while it was night.

Iam in the White Mountains of New Hampshire,
Staring above at an empty space;
Seeing nothing but air
And feeling coldness I never felt,
While my heart begins to melt,
my eyes begins to look for the place
Where once was the old man's face.

I am now at the shore of Profile like
And all around me is shattered rock
That in me I begin to ache
As the reality settles in
And my eyesight is thin,
As I am still in shock
at seeing all this cold block.

After all he has been through
He had to meet his end this day
When a late Spring snowstorm blew
And he toppled from his perch,
And now within I search;
Even for one little way
For words in which to pray.

But what words can you begin to use
To describe the emptiness you feel
When over and over you hear the news
Of the Old Man in the Mountain's demise;
It is like out of New Hampshire's heart you took a slice,
But right away you have to kneel
To remember the Old Man's face and then you begin to heal.