Go to the rock. 

Inch up to it,
rise with it.
rub and roil at
it’s base.

Some know where
to stand,
where to pose,
when to step back.

Most don’t.

I smile at each
bewildered gasp
as person
after person loses
footing in the glutenous

If they could
they would
write a name
into its face.

Use their elements.

Turn corners into curves.

Create calligraphic timestamps
only legible
to the watchful.

6 hours from now
this could be underwater.

Or, may be floating
12 feet up.

That squish and squeak
from the red earth
found only on this
would be forgotten.

It must be

a memory adrift.

Ground, then foam,
now sea floor.

When it’s raw face
returns ashore
even seaweed
will be
worn differently.

What was clung to
is now
salt washed and rinsed.

Currents inhale and
exhale change.

Every ebb and flow

It’s history
has made these precarious

and in need of protection.

Even the peregrine hestitate
before landing.

Evidence of breakage-
bare wedges of
impossible gravity
seem to float defying physics

And except for single spindles
of white pine along
it’s scalp and spine
nothing else dares
to rise.

This cycle of
getting to ground,
seeing the past,
settling at bottom
does not feel normal.

good, bad,
cold, stormy,
light, dark
have molded
me too.

A reminder that some things,
elemental things,
can return
and rend us down
until you fall
into them.

And your moon,
or whatever small body
of influence that
orbits you,

knows your only
choice will be

One response to “hopewell”

  1. Lovely! Reminding me that I am of the earth, of nature, subject to all the forces whether I deem them bad or good, high or low. The tides, the earth, the sea does not struggle. It just plays its part, it accepts.


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