volcano
Do you remember the grade
when we built volcanoes --
hollow towers of papier-mâché,
and the incendiary mix
of vinegar and baking powder
that spewed over the sides?
It was about the same time
our sorrow began to stack up:
the strata of struggle and
shame solidifying into a
debilitating monument where
our fault lines intersect.
We watched movies of molten
lava bursting forth from the
center of the earth with
unstoppable fiery force,
searing the landscape
and then turning to stone.
What a surprise to find
that what forces up from
the core of our beings,
the fault lines of failure,
the center of our sorrow,
is the lava of laughter:
a mighty river of love
that knows shame by name
and is hot as hope,
turning the stack of sorrow
into the geology of grace and
-- dare I say it? --
the pumice of promise.
Peace,
Milton
