High King of the Alps
Glaciered tiers, peaks like serrated teeth,
dipping and rising, ebbing and flowing,
in a predictable pattern.
Except for one outlier, the mighty Matterhorn.
Its snowy tip an icy triangular point
slowly widening, like a debutante dipping
her skirts into the deepest curtsy.
Dawn appears, signaling the sun to awaken
its colossal subjects for the golden hour.
I stand ready, my eyes glued to that frosted cap,
watching and waiting for that precious moment.
First a subtle glow, just a sun-feathered kiss
on the jagged tip, as if testing the mighty rock’s devotion.
Then, feeling encouraged, a stronger press
of its radiant lips on the cold sleek granite.
The sun’s shimmering glow well-received,
it radiates outward and spreads like golden lava,
encompassing its warmth upon its grateful recipient.
Beaming, shining, the mighty Matterhorn.
The High King for the golden hour.
The gilded minutes slip by too quickly
as the sun completes its ascent.
The forsaken Matterhorn turns back to
cold, gray granite.
Still king of the Alps, frosted cap intact.
But no longer High King.
Until tomorrow, when the sun’s kiss once again
embraces its favorite subject.
