The volcano stands robed in snow,
white silence draped over sleeping fire.
Its peak pierces the cold blue sky,
ancient, unmoving,
beyond haste.
Below, spring unfolds in color—
wildflowers opening their tender palms,
green shoots breaking earth
without fear of ash.
Winter crowns the summit.
Spring warms the valley.
Neither argues with the other.
Snow does not deny the bloom.
Bloom does not challenge the snow.
Fire rests beneath both,
patient as eternity.
In this meeting—
frost and blossom,
stillness and rising—
the mountain teaches
what the seasons already know:
opposites are only
one breath
wearing different names.
