The Mountain

My Lady now sleeps, spent after torrid affairs of the adoring sky. Evidence of their love pools around her swelling form, now cool and placid from the last chilling touches of night. Only hazy clouds remain as evidence of what transpired. Subtly they caress her curves and supple mounds spilling upon her  a mist to hide the wonders of her slopes from voyeuristic eyes. But let curiosity not be dismayed; rays of pale light peek slyly through the blanket of clouds to pain her lavender precipice in pastels. And as she slumbers the world begins to stir.

All is fresh and crisp in the dampness of her bed. Even as her breath eases with the chill of snow caps her children find comfort in it's scent of pine and winter. Scarcely strewn about the marsh and unkempt bedding they find shelter among the limbs of their earthen cousins. And still further below, frost bitten but ever resilient, a carpet of green encircles the lake of joyfully shed tears.

It is only this water which dares attempt to paint her portrait. Across it's surface hues of a dawn lit sky and it's cotton swirling lay motionless, suspended in a way that any movement might disrupt it's pristine beauty.  Languid in time, My Lady remains undisturbed.