I see him every day,
Angled up to the sky
He looks dead still
His white face three miles high.
He looks like he doesn’t move
Jagged, lonely and cold.
His rocky, igneous bones
Five hundred thousand years old.
But I know how his frosted skin creeps.
Like icy inchworms down
Bit by frozen bit.
Melting to the ground.
I smell his hot sulfur breathe
Huffing through his cracks.
I feel his stony muscles
As I climb upon his back.
I hear his molten heart beating
From his stance, three miles tall.
He swells with pride to know he lives
And soon he’ll show us all.
OK. Mount Rainier is only 2.73 miles high. Not 3. Poetic discretion.