Crags, we all have them
Especially when we get older
In the face, around the eyes and mouth
Symbols of life and maturity
Compaired to Crags of granite
With trees and moss blanketing them
There are special people who remind me of the crags
Salty-peppery hair, thick-soft, curly-messy, wild
Wild winds that shape the trees growing on the crags
Voices thick, grugh, rolling with the hills
Hills and valleys, long in history, secrets
Souls sweet as the moss smells in the late autumn sun
Blue-green Eyes betray fertile intellegence,
Behind that impish gleam
Intelligence flows with the rainwater off the shelves of granite
Waterfalls sheild secrets of the crag, creating mist
Misty fog shades paths making images there or not
Choices, past, future, now
The fog of the land wont give up her secrets
Neither will the mature folk, but hear them
Advice is not given lightly or easily
Yet, Taken and disregarded by inexperiance
Vanity of youth ignores experiance, beauty, true beauty
Beauty of experiance, life, age
There are no crags in youth, fields, meadows, or moors
Just gentle slopes, virgin, boring, flat
Crags huge, jetties and cliffs, valleys uneven
Adventurous, facinating, intimidating, intriguing, wild
More interesting
Crags
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