The Fist 

The old man stands

On a snowy hillside

Silhouetted by a gray

Expanse of winter sea

In the distance a massive

Granite fist rests gently

On the sea nestled in

Amongst the waves 

There is a satisfying

Calmness to this moment

The way the fist of stone

Sits in the water

Patiently waiting for

The next glacial age

Immune to the whims

Of man and nature

Of time and tide 

The grizzled old man

His shoulder hunched

Against the wind

That pushes snow into

His white beard 

The old man looks

Out towards that fist

And thinks

This has been worth

The price of

Admission

After all