There she was one Sunday night, full in her power and in a rusty red and orange hue,
Kissing her lover, the mountains, goodbye to cut her swath across the valley inverted,
Her face a perplexing medley of ecstacy and resignation and duty and sadness,
Longing to be free but looking back in fondness on the love she shared with the brutish mountains.
They brooded, those mountains, in the gathering dark,
The light of their lover, the moon, lingering slightly,
And soon, as she crested the vestiges of their peaks,
They sat contemplating how they had once been lit up,
A reflection of a reflection but enough still to give them a glow,
A glow that started outside them and worked their way in,
And even though she was gone, there was still warmth radiating out their stones for some minutes,
But soon they grew cold.
At the apex of her assent, the moon grew smaller,
She had come so far and could see the lover she had left behind,
The horizon that was yet to come, and she paused and reflected and thought how nice it would be to stop this sojourn,
Return to the familiar caress of those eastern mountains,
Better the hell you know, she thought, and dangled perilously on the precipice of inaction, of back-tracking.
The mountains watched her shrinking,
Saw her resolution waning and waited, breathless,
Hoping beyond hope that the wavering was not imagined,
That physics would break and she’d return to him,
Each and every boulder longing, remembering embraces,
But those memories were all that he would harbor,
She would not come back,
Nothing would ever be the same, even on the morrow when she crested them again.