Sister Andrew John’s Weblog 2

Old Man of the Mountain, he’s always called,
and if you stand at just the spot
you’ll see his craggy nose and chin,
the deep-set eyes. Mount Rushmore
of New Hampshire, carved by God.

I must have been no more than five
the day we traveled there. “Oh, see!”
said mom, “Look up! See the old man?”
I saw some piled-up rocks on top.
“Oh, yes,” I said, “I see him very well.”

And it was years before
a postcard pictured what I’d missed.
But then, I’ve often looked and seen
things strangely; a slightly different angle
than’s intended. Still, I’ve been content.