The mountains of this North
Must have been some inspiration
For the pink palettes of Rome.
As the Sun sets on western crests
It tosses bits of rosy glow
At rock faces who watch it set.
Even clouds can’t seem to leave these peaks alone.
Their white-fisted mist grip each snowy summit,
Spreading dewy fingers down ridges every night.
Only in the privacy before early dawn,
Do mists embrace mountains top to base,
Dare to let all dew reserve rest on each descending crest.
And as the sun creeps into view each day,
Searching corners out of darkness,
White light burns misty grips to higher places.