you are the mount saint helens of men
where to begin...
fine silk hair soft as picnic grass
freckles scatter your ridges
like frightened people in the sun
your foothills prickle with coarser stuff
hip-deep, one can't help but thank God
the blast only blew out the top
you get smoother with time, the farther you go
it's the climb that matters:
being on top is only a prelude to going down
and lava pulses beneath your many surfaces
potent as the day you first exploded
the clouds that cross your face
accentuate the cruel beauty
of your craters and scars,
remind the world
just how dangerous you are:
a live volcano, set to blow the town
they pay no attention
until stones and ash are falling like rain
and the trembling ground
cannot absorb them fast enough
you are the mount saint helens of men
I am your mirror
and your secrets are safe with me
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