The Mountain That Became a Meadow

The grass has covered up the scar,
the creeks run clear, the meadows bend,
an elk stands in the middle, far
from hurry, with the sky to tend.

The mountain long ago said: done,
and let the whole of itself blow.
The ash it threw came down as one
wide land where only grass would grow.

I came up on a Monday kept
for people who did not come home.
The valley holds the quiet, swept
by wind around Redondo's dome.

Black glass lies where the lava cooled,
the kind that makes a wicked blade.
For ages here the hands that tooled
sent pieces miles away in trade.

A day set down to stop and think
is easy on a rim this wide.
The grass rolls off; the shadows sink.
I hold the names I keep inside.

The mountain blew its top one day
and settled down to growing grass.
That's more than most of us can say.
It had the room. I let time pass.