A peak stands tall within a cone,

     It’s summit reaching high.

A scrumptious mountain, tall and proud,

     That reaches to the sky.

 

But look, the snow upon its peak

     Begins to melt and slide,

And down the mountainside it runs,

     But there’s nowhere it can hide.

 

A tongue comes down and scoops it up.

     It’s transferred to a mouth

But, until that stream’s completely dry,

     It will run from north to south.

​

Copyright on all my poems