Between aspiring, cloud-laced mountain peaks,
The ancient Giant White Hand reaches over,
Its outstretched fingers, cool and crystalline,
Grasping at rock and tree in the valley below,
Its cracked fingernails stained translucent blue,
Scratching steadily at the gritty surface of soaking ground …
… Shrouded in silence …
Crack!
A raucous, rumbling avalanche of icy flesh flakes away
and cascades over jagged knuckle and smooth snowy skin …
… Then silence again …
But for the drip, drip, dripping
of pure water-sweat from some gigantic invisible effort,
Tarrying a while in turquoise pools,
Slithering away in swift-flowing streams,
Racing down rocky channels in churning rapids,
Wildly leaping off clinging cliffs in thunderous waterfalls,
Freely frothing over into fathomless fjords,
Then silently melting with its maternal source,
The sea.
Until one day, it is born again of heavenly seed,
New blood,
perhaps to pulse through the veins
Of the next Giant White Hand
To wave over our Earth orb.
— Wayne Visser