The Hands of Time, a Mountain Poem
They roll across the heavens like great gray and white sails, suspended on masks held up by the wind. Bolts of white line fire, collide with the earth, forming a flag's insignia against the ominous sky. With a tropical force, lines of pouring rain showers waves against the mountain slopes. Gradually melting, exposing bare rock that cuts against the blue sky, the canyon walls and gorges give themselves up to continual harassment.
It is a test of wills. The powers of nature challenge the masses of earthen forms. Wind and water pressures the fortified walls in assault after assault for control over strongholds of forest and stone. Year after year, day after day it is a losing battle with the mountains as they yield their shapes to the forces of change.
It is the hand of mother nature that has demanded submission from marble, granite and crystal. A billion years have taken their toll and shaped the destiny of the Blue Ridge Mountains.