 |
|
|
I live in a city encircled by active volcanoes.
Mount Hood points her graceful head over the horizon.
Morning sun streams radiance over her bridal white purity.
…deceptive beauty.
The Cascade Range - a photographer's dream -
This gray mouse trembles, hotly seared by internal volcanoes.
teasing flames lick at my apathy, awaiting orders -
fed by insanity jousting with my unsteady brain.
…which will erupt first?
This once quiet mouse - who is not what she seems.
Bright blue skies overhead offer no ominous warnings,
Mount Saint Helens awaits, with bright newly rounded head
the birds know. They sense what is lurking there.
…she was not always quiet.
Eager vendors sold her ashes, money made from her nightmare.
My mousy smile sweetly glows – setting off no alarms.
No one knows that within me hot lava’s churning inside.
The churning within unceasingly screams to be free.
…I know – and I am afraid.
I quietly smolder, fires gentled – or so it would seem.
And Mount Tabor's so gentle, why, houses are built there!
quietly waiting. Portland rarely gets snow.
Let them go to Mount Hood. On her, kids joy playing hoops.
…and patiently, she waits..
Mount Tabor and I have been quiet too long.
Which will erupt first?
me?
maybe.
Mt. St. Helens is erupting...
So am I.
|
|
|
