I believe that volcanoes never really want to blow;
they just get provoked when their ground shifts below.
It’s just not a good look
when your clouds turn to ash
and your face folds with fire,
when your mood turns to strife
and your friends leave your life.
As the shaking subsides
they stare from new eyes.
Then the quaking divides
your sight to blue skies.
A paradox then as the trees grow anew
and the streams start to trickle.
Sun shining again; on flowers so fickle.
The valley forgets about its new coat of gloss.
The mountain remembers; and weeps for its loss.