Mount San Jacinto

I am the Queen, majestic in my white veil and flowing green attire as the winter sun rises to my eastern face;
no foul stench of the valley wind assails my nostrils, no blanket of brown, particulate-laden poisonous air gets any further than my foothills, the poor things. But with any luck they will ascend through the mess.

I feel the encroachment of the human race; they are like mites as they rustle up my flanks; some of them are good, but mostly they care not a whit what happens to me. They're not Avon oriented, I guess, but they do love those oily products which destroy them and which pronounce my own untimely demise.

There is nothing I can do; I am aging, my beauty fades---there are loyal followers who pamper me, there are still people fainting when they reach my bosom and find that mother Earth breathes and sighs. Oh, the beauty of youth is fleeting; my sisters across the globe have the same problems, although a few still have their their pert pointed pulchritudinous peaks and arrogance of youth, some exhaling the breath of fire to keep the multitudes a good distance away. Their royalty is assured for...for who knows how little precious time?

I see, more than anyone, the sooty cloak of death from the metropolis spread, the urban sprawl in the west, yet that and those terrible fires produce some beautiful sunsets for me, and I am flattered that photographers find my countenance so commanding, so alluring. They help me forget. They seem to focus more on my coiffure than the majesty of me as a whole, however, but that's just the nature of the beast, I guess.
I have given them the best days of my life, wearing a necklace of gossamer mist, my face aglow with the fading sunlight; I always look best in the evening, don't you agree? I can't help it, I'm female, part of Mother Earth, so forgive me if I blow up a little storm. You're lucky I don't let off a little steam.

On rare occasions I wear a crown, sometimes two. Those are very special to me. I embrace the photographers and they give back to me. So they are my special people, along with the poets. I may age, my beauty may fade, but I am always willing to accommodate admirers. Oh, where are those Avon ladies?