“Your sundial will grow weary lacking shadows in this place”!
They rode in wagons, on horses, wheeling vans, smoking high, to the base of Flagstaff Mountain this Persepolis in the sky. They moved in special symmetry on a parallel, you wonder why, and under one they caravanned, with mystery in their eyes. Said Chief Niwot, with his sadness, build your temples, “your Versailles”, there is iron of mystic waiting with the Flatirons on their side. From one, repeat this antiphon, when the wind blows in the sky, on the forty creeps a Camelot, ghost of things who knows of why. What does flow here from this mountain, 30 miles from this divide, crystal liquid from cold glaciers, blinding white against the sky.
In this place of distilled beauty, they have come to worship land, from the cornerstone of all reason, logic blossoms where she can. If it not would be for gravestones rising grey upon this butte, one would wonder if this Boulder didn’t give life at its root. Here she sits when all the mountains meet the plains that mock the sea, and she anchors here in goodness, mediating wild and free. This premise rest then in mythology, where an angel stirs in its seed, sighing blessing’s in its virtue giving promise by its creed. There by on this risen city, western gateway, earth’s degree, G-D has made in you a miracle, beauty sown and guaranteed.
They have come to see the mountains, watch the bear rise on its feet, set their feet upon this meadow, walk their way down Pearl Street. They have built upon an anthem, while the snow fell down in sheets, turned the city to a people, and one soul to be complete. Fortune, has not come with weakness, nor will it ever know repeat, for there is but one Boulder, and she is the magic suite. When there is but one city, one village, left, shining still, she will be there below Flagstaff, with her people, their love of place instilled.
They rode in wagons, on horses, wheeling vans and smoking high, to the base of Flagstaff Mountain this Persepolis in the sky. – 11.12.2014 – דָּנִיֵּאל