Here you will find the Poem Mountain of poet Kenneth Koch
Nothing's moving I don't see anybody And I know that it's not a trick There really is nothing moving there And there aren't any people. It is the very utmost top Where, as is not unusual, There is snow, lying like the hair on a white-haired person's head Combed sideways and backward and forward to cover as much of the top As possible, for the snow is thinning, it's September Although a few months from now there will be a new crop Probably, though this no one KNOWS (so neither do we) But every other year it has happened by November Except for one year that's known about, nineteen twenty-three When the top was more and more uncovered until December fifteenth When finally it snowed and snowed I love seeing this mountain like a mouse Attached to the tail of another mouse, and to another and to another In total mountain silence There is no way to get up there, and no means to stay. It is uninhabitable. No roads and no possibility Of roads. You don't have a history Do you, mountain top? This doesn't make you either a mystery Or a dull person and you're certainly not a truck stop. No industry can exploit you No developer can divide you into estates or lots No dazzling disquieting woman can tie your heart in knots. I could never lead my life on one of those spots You leave uncovered up there. No way to be there But I'm moved.