Past pavement and plate tectonics,
if we hadn’t lost our way in
unmarked turns gone logging roads,
past arterials and faded signs to
gravel roads tamped with oil and dust,
would we have seen the earth meet
the point where
the rains are sparked?
If the cliffs were not as steep and ragged, I might,
I might believe these mountains were ancestor aunts,
aunts sipping glacier-washed fir-needle teas,
cedar-bark cookies now slightly cooled,
reliving tales of booming pyroclastic shows,
rather than young millenials, having napped, now
pre-func dancing to an internal beat, grabbing an extra jo-jo
from the corner store, an energy drink for later,
getting ready for the fireworks to come.
*”Tahoma” is the anglicized Salish Indian name for the mountain (and active volcano) now known as Mt. Rainier.
Na/GloPoWriMo’s Day 6 prompt is to “write a poem of the possible….what might happen if the conditions are right. Today, write a poem that emphasizes the power of “if,” of the woulds and coulds and shoulds of the world.”