The Warrior 

When the volcano first erupted, 
Ice poured from the sky. 
Drums beat while red ribbons 
Tied themselves around trees and then 
Darkened to shades of gray. 
The warrior looked at the battlefield, 
Ash pranced through the wind, 
Scattering patterns like lace— 
Seemingly sweet choreography.

Another task lay ahead. 
She must reach the foaming mouth 
And talk to the mountain 
About their battle and the importance of 
Dignity. 
And stand tall, letting the sun fall 
On her watch, 
Staying to howl at the moon, 
Of course.

That night the mountain breathed 
Fire once more, swallowing the 
Warrior, never to erupt again.

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