“Tomorrow creeps in this petty pace,” Shakespeare said.
Means nothing to me.
I breathed quietly for an eon.
Napped for an epoch or two.
Snored through the dinosaurs’ period.
Whose tomorrow should we use?

You weren’t here when I last rose a thousand meters.
Your Sequoias’ parents were seedlings when I coughed a few times.
By your clock, a score and a few past I gave back a thousand feet.
It matters not.
The rock is my clay, the magma my blood.
I sigh steam dusted with ash as I muse on my choices.
The snow melts from my lava dome.

Tickles.

Tomorrow, yours or mine,

I’ll grow again.

Or I’ll shrink.

Or I’ll sleep.
Watch me.
As long as you can.
I’ll be here.