Seemingly irreducible,
stones wait
perched on ledges,
submerged in pools, cupped in other stones.
It falls to us, since we cannot ever wait,
since we are fragile and momentary,
to consider time.
We believe we are alone in this.
Yet wind and ice and water,
seasons and storm –
all these force open time’s hands,
revealing change
to these ground and grinding stones.
How can we, fleeting, bent on living,
distinguish tool from art?
We turn and bend our fragile souls
to this indifferent land.
We suffer hearts of stone,
weep rivers, longing
to be either tool or art.
Roots and ice and time –
Freeze and thaw and freeze again –
Even stones dissolve.
