Walk a trail down to the lake
mountain ash and elderberries red
old-growth log bodies blown about,
whacked down, tumbled in the new ash wadis.
Root-mats tipped up, veiled in tall straight fireweed,
fields of prone logs laid by blast
in-line north-south down and silvery
limbless barkless poles —
clear to the alpine ridgetop all you see
is toothpicks of dead trees
thousands of summers
at detritus-cycle rest
— hard and dry in the sun — the long life of the down tree yet to go
bedded in bushes of pearly everlasting
dense white flowers
saplings of bushy vibrant silver fir
the creek here once was “Harmony Falls”
The pristine mountain
just a little battered now
the smooth dome gone
ragged crown
the lake was shady yin —
now blinding water mirror of the sky
remembering days of fir and hemlock —
no blame to magma or the mountain
& sit on a clean down log at the lake’s edge,
the water dark as tea.
I had asked Mt. St. Helens for help
the day I climbed it, so seems she did
The trees all lying flat like, after that big party
Siddhartha went to on the night he left the house for good,
crowd of young friends whipped from sexy dancing
dozens crashed out on the floor
angelic boys and girls, sleeping it off.
A palace orgy of the gods but what
“we” see is “Blast Zone” sprinkled with
clustered white flowers
“Do not be tricked by human-centered views,” says Dogen,
And Siddhartha looks it over, slips away — for another forest —
— to really get right down on life and death.
If you ask for help it comes.
But not in any way you’d ever know
— thank you Loowit, lawilayt-lá, Smoky Mâ
gracias xiexie grace