Stone

Any rockslide leaves a mark, Boulders tell old tales, Mountains shift and rearrange, You’ll read it in the details. Like tree rings or river banks, The story’s there to find, In North Carolina, rocks would sing, When hammers beat in time. I’ve made adjustments, felt the weight, Of gravity and ice, But the song my rocks might sing one day, Waits to be made concise. I’m not in charge of how I fall, Just brittle enough to break, With every shift, a new name calls, Another face to take. People project their dreams on me, Name me “Fortress,” “Old Man,” “Thunder,” Carved by wind and time, I’m a silhouette to ponder. In South Dakota, mountains scarred, By dead men’s faces cast, But I won’t bend to hammer blows, Or promises that will not last. I’ve made adjustments, felt the weight, Of gravity and ice, But the song my rocks might sing one day, Waits to be made concise. I’m not in charge of how I fall, Just brittle enough to break, With every shift, a new name calls, Another face to take. I am the work of hands unseen, Faults bright with potential, Ice and gravity know me best, Their work on me, essential. I’ll be shaped by what’s to come, By wind and water’s plan, Not by tools or prayers or gifts, But by earth’s wind and sand. I’ve made adjustments, felt the weight, Of gravity and ice, But the song my rocks might sing one day, Waits to be made concise. I’m not in charge of how I fall, Just brittle enough to break, With every shift, a new name calls, Another face to take. So I’ll wait, and I’ll watch, As time shapes me slow, Knowing not what I’ll be, Only the elements I know. I am the work of forces strong, A mountain’s story told, Not by men or machines, But by the earth’s strong hold.