flowing crackles
steam and stream
red blood of Earth gushing
inconceivably
burning its way
as it meanders with ferocity
the science makes sense
defining:
“crater”
“lava”
“eruption”
“molten”
“volcano”
“fissure”
and the images are clear:
ash and plume
mountain
cloud
red stripe of fire
black charred remains
a path indelibly marked
they call it by name, saying:
Pele
Gugurang
Masaya
Hephaestus
Xiuhtecuhtli
Lalahon
Chantico
or
Si Mbah (“respected one” who cannot be called by name)
but without a visceral presence with it
how can it be known
felt
comprehended by the heart?
how can its tremendous potency
stir and sate the longing for comprehension?
despite climbing a few volcanoes,
sitting in their shade,
stumbling through their lava fields,
swimming in waters warmed by their heat,
painting them in foreign lands …
… more direct volcano experiences, it seems, than originally remembered – the reverie-to-be of an in-person embrace now dragging the memories from their hiding places -
despite all that
I find it impossible to really “get” what thirty-billion-gallons-of-molten-lava means when a person is standing there on the land that is the container – treed, flowery, home to humans and more-than-humans – for the extraordinary crimson goo that becomes creature on a mission
so it was in some small – and perhaps feeble - effort to rectify the “longing to see” with the “longing to understand” that I embarked on a brief and hearty journey to the home of Kilauea
(Orig. posted in 2018)
