If a mountain can fall apart under the right amount of pressure (p),
Of less imposing stature, farther from heaven, and alien to earth,
What’s to prevent little (m) losing ground to the twin water course?
Around and over my feet flow its taunts to tilt and tumble sideways,
To crash into the poisonous waves stirring just below its surface.
But a little (m) + (p) equals change (c)
And from (c) another state of being:
Yet always of service.