Mountain, Old Father

by EDWARD WEISMILLER

Mountain, old father, be
The bulk of where I am,
A spar of Adam’s home
Lodged in the sliding sea;

Yet from your spired sides
Plunge me far out of thought
Into that hungering night
That swallows its own tides.

My god was half a fish;
His caverns ache with gold.
The vesture that he willed
Clothes me against my wish.

But was his flesh a fault?
He roars, and I must heed:
The granite in your blood
Is younger than the salt.

Drop me in his dark foam.
And wait; I shall not stay.
His floods will anchor me.
Your rock will spire me home.