Late afternoon clouds, low
moving over Pikes Peak as faux mist.
Weak translucent shade
pulled over the proud peak’s silhouette,
a massive wall rising from the prairie,
both gateway and barrier to the West.
The low cover a pale disguise
seeking to evoke the Appalachians,
eastern grandfather of the Rockies.
Where mist is the white hair of old age,
draped across shoulders
that have born the weight of war
and across eyes that have seen
the birth of a nation and
subsequent hemorrhage and healing.
Wearied by it all, yet patient with its people.
The Rockies represent a different world
of coarse courtesies and jagged prose.
Whose stark and rugged good looks
bow before the grace of eastern beauty.
Whose brashness has little to teach,
and much to learn
From the wisdom of the East.