You rise above the cityscape without
Knowing how tall you are. You kiss the sun
At noon, then clothe yourself in a foaming cloud—
Cloistering mystery like a veiled nun.
Your peachy rocks are like a monk’s brown hood.
Above the evergreen your granite grows,
Freezing and falling, forming a rood.
You are a priest who prays to God and slows
Man’s hectic business with your incense-burning,
A perfumed offering rising to his throne.
Your fire and flood and seasonal sacred purging
Are well recorded, but not fully known.
Liturgy climbs this ancient peak of the sun
To worship the Sculptor, Holy Spirit, and Son.
(c) 2016 Melody Cantwell