Mount Rainier

a poem of our national parks

Rainier, ascendant for a million years, 
Commands the green horizon—smokes—
And claims the land, where we were born and raised
Beside a river flowing white.

Like moths to brilliant flame, we're drawn to her.
In sleep, her glacial limbs spread out
With grace. We had to touch her, prove our worth,
By counting coup at crater's edge.

On summer days we'd drive to Paradise
To straddle streams of melted snow
To flit like bees from flower to wilder flower
To eat beneath subalpine firs.

In winter, bearing army surplus clothes
And Boy Scout oaths, we'd snowshoe up
And burrow down into the mountain's skin
And sleep (not well) on icy slabs.

The lonely mountain stands apart, immense;
A mile above the greentopped range:
A child grown taller than her genitors,
One prone to violent growing pains.

She's Damocles' suspended sword of doom.
A looming terror, honed and sharp,
A tool for Mother Nature's bored caprice
Or God the Father's measured wrath.

She's beauty. Curving like a rattlesnake
About to strike. A glinting fang.
The splendid billow of a mushroom cloud
Seen just before the shockwave hits.