Avalanche at Sundance

In chalky white

glissades, a bride descends

the staircase of my northern face,

trailing a train of powdered alabaster plume,

tearing hairs of pine and gilded aspen from my chest,

roaring with lust as she rubs my base and accepts in return

my own expressions of sediment stone inclined to direct and produce.

Once she has settled─covered all life at my foot─it is her nature to exhale.

So keep your bumpless moguls

sitting in front of sparkly-beaded

vertical screens─ palming their

cellular phones at festivals of film─

and out of my transverse face.

Even a mountain needs space to breathe.

─ Richard Hacken