Yes, given a chance it would all come back–

Needing only us to leave it alone,

That scab of wildfire, that dead and burned zone,

Let the wind breath seeds across ashen wrack;

Let the clouds drag their skirts beyond the track

of pavement, over the mountains’ backbones;

Let the sun’s yeasty power wake what was thrown

Down to ruin: cone-seeded, rising plaque

Of mossy green would film the riven slopes.

In time-lapse minutes, a mere human life’s

Run, emerald promise, renewal’s hope.

But what myth do we turn to now to cope

When rain melts hills like fire burns away wax,

Or no rain, nor gods turning their backs?