Stromboli Night

On the edge of the crater we sit
in the half dark of full moon,
the chatter of several score subsided
in silence.
Cameras to the ready, helmeted
and masked, an unbidden worship is unzipped.
Stromboli performs in scarlet fountains
as the growls and belches
keep human mouths closed,
in case hearts leap out. 


This mountain of rock and cinder and ash
is having its say, and we
are given a lesson on our place in the universe.
Atom to atom
and dust to dust,
we beings now as fragile
and tender as the soft camomile flower
that grows out of the lava. 


Then along the rim
and down,
down,
down
in Indian file, like Pink Panthers
springing over the deep ash
awakened and frightened
by the real Gods of Earth.