Ozone

Hey this is a poem. I sometimes write them. Read it. Tell me what you think.

Ozone

Epigraph:

 

Crouch, as best you can, on the balls of your feet – heels touching, head down, and hands covering ears.

– The National Parks Service on Lightning Safety

 

It is not light we need, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, the earthquake.

– Fredrick Douglass

 

There is a moment enthroned

deep in my memory,

crowned with boundless exhilaration,

shrouded in fear’s regalia.

.

Huddled on the shoulders of

great grizzled peaks,

man and mountain together

watch the still and gathering dark.

 .

Green and purple clouds brood there,

with wispy beards and brows

shaking fists and clenched teeth,

their hot gaze smothering.

 .

Stillness, a sudden cold breath.

Time translucent, in razor-bright slivers.

Waiting,

life throbbing in my ears.

.

A breath becomes a scream,

the gibbering fury of a fanatical legion.

Their chants howl through the aspens,

their tears of rage slash down in wavering sheets.

.

Icy bullets flense flesh and rock,

cold and stinging and derisive.

Mad laughter echoes between lonely peaks;

dry boulders clattering in a manic maw.

 .

The sky speaks.

Light and sound and blinding flash,

the ground shying

from the bite of inscrutable rhetoric.

 .

Rocks tumble in stricken,

clattering torrents which harmonize

the roaring wind, the hissing rain,

the screaming lightning.

 .

All around is rampant light

and a smell like spring and sparks.

The air tastes like victory,

as clear as inspiration.

 .

That moment is catharsis and bubbling awe,

And complete insignificance.

Grinning.

Spine buzzing and bone drenched.

 

 

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