This handsize rock inhabits
the outline of itself
on the sand.
Its weight
is itself, not pressing
or lifting.
It possesses
only a long lineage
of mountain, lava, planet,
showers of space
and a selfbombing star.
It looks neither ahead
nor pastward.
It is mooncold,
noonhot, windburnished,
its underside melon dusk
of a wintersunset.
Sands settle around it
and colonies of seeds
waiting for the rare rain.
The lizard uses it as a plaza.
Ants cross it carrying
their dead and perhaps mine.
The sun plays shadowgames
with its heights and angles.
Honor it, touch it with awe.
Kneeling beside it explore
its silent everness.
Empty yourself into its form
which has been a star
and can be dust far blown
and is today this stone.
If you should spit upon it,
set it in mortar for your wall,
put it in the trunk of the car
and forget it, it will not care.
But you may feel sadness
in the sun, and by nightfall
immeasurable losses
and in your tenderest parts
the fangs of time.