Sun Mountain Sitting Big: A Sonnet to Pikes Peak


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


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