I ride Route 17 west, and the mountains lift
and circle the road, mountains in front of me
and the curve of others to the right and left.
The evergreens' dark feathers brush the sky,
and the trees on the hills, bereft of leaves,
stand stiff and straight as pencil strokes,
close together and pointing skyward,
so perfect and symmetrical the lines
they could be an artist's rendition
of winter mountains.
I try to make a picture of them
in my mind, black pencil strokes
separated by white snow,
such beauty even in grayness.
(c) Copyright 1999. The Christian Science Publishing Society