Hazy pink blankets coat the horizon
like a blouse tossed to the floor
at the end of a
There’s a fog rolling over the cliffs,
entirely entranced with
the spinning of the Earth.
In the early morning sun,
champagne is within reach and the
cool, beckoning touch of
is almost tangible.
I could look at the crest of this
jagged rock forever and picture us there,
buoyant in the clouds
without strings holding
But there are too many things to do,
too many lives to live,
too many moments to pretend to be
So I pick up my pen and write another damn
poem about mountains,
wishing I could fade into the pastel
peaks like a
coasting into the sunrise.
Writer, editor, and storyteller living in the Twin Cities.