This mountain
Black, foreboding in the depths of night,
Speaks in necromancer tongues.
Majestic, yet mysterious,
And magical in the dying light.
This mountain,
A crown of cloud encompassing it’s brow.
A tablecloth of cirrus and mist.
The sun, a furious furnace-orange
Dripping light from its sandstone face like lava frosting,
Sizzling and roiling the air,
In searing waves of mango light.
The nuclear eye of a candle,
Reluctantly quenched in the sea
This mountain,
A long flat mesa
Atop a wall of scarlet and coral paint
A living pigment sculpture.
Sliding to violet
As if a field of lavender had blushed.
This mountain,
In smoky amethyst shadow
A lingering kiss of dark carmine lips
Lit only now by the light of a gibbous moon.
Once again in the cloak of late evening’s arms.
A blank canvas.
A Tabula Rasa.
