Maenads

Montanas too are gods
in their own rite
in other languages
to be worshiped
or ignored
It matters not to them.

Montanas remember in their rocks
the days and nights of seas, glaciers, searing winds.
Their skirts of scree testify
hard times and memories
too bitter for the fragile codes
encapsuled by our DNA.
And yet they gaze with fondness
on the living forms that gather
in their sheltered shades.
They preen in wraps of greenery,
in too-revealing gauze of pines,
and barely hide their leaking, wrinkled
crevasses beneath foundation clothes
of lichens, ferns and fungus.

Montanas dote on darling life
caressing that which clings and suckles
at their madonna breasts,
until the wild hot winds and lightning storms
call them out again to dance with fiery flumes
and feathered plumes of pillared smoke,
to celebrate communion with their deities,
the galaxies and stars.