These are the stones
that ground dull nails and sharpened talons,
they have slid under mountains of ice and fire,
are polished by the grind of a glacial momentum.
The stones endure now as layers of motion
sealed within catchments of stillness;
some are wind-tools shaped by a tireless chisel,
other’s glint with a history and crushed starlight.
The river has left signs of its scouring trace.
I turn a stone over –
look backward to a molten world,
imagining the imperceptible burnishing
of such relentless forces.
Thought is a fish out of water here,
mind at one with the ice floes momentum,
a witness to the passing away of all density,
the defeat of every bulwark in the stream
of this rivering,
this endless whittle of creation.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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