Pushed hard against the back-bone of blue horizon

the mountain-tops pile up and curl in a frozen spume,

whitecaps flinging froth like salt-stiff pennants in a gale.

These heights were whittled by shrinking inland seas,

their silt churned aeon after aeon ‘til the teeth of this

and the shell of that fused with just enough showing

for this iteration of creation to call such wonders Holy.

The sliding-down sun daubs the crest with coral,

a hue akin to the blush on a conch’s pursed lip,

conjuring ancient motes that mingle with tomorrow.

©Dana Hughes 2.5.18