
walking a streambed:
ancient carving worn & cracked,
stands guard… for me?

walking a streambed:
ancient carving worn & cracked,
stands guard… for me?
There's something beloved about
an ancient place.
Entropy increases.
Nature devours.
Nothing lasts forever.
Nothing of man can be built of stone
sturdy enough or steel resistant
enough to become ancient
by mere persistence.
It must be loved.
Someone must clean the grass
from the cracks, must scrub
moss & mold, must replace
pieces that slough off...
(& must do it all with tender
craftsmanship.)
I suspect anything ancient
that's higher than my knee
is a Theseus's ship:
rebuilt stone by stone through the ages
until only a wafting idea of the place
remains ancient.
The landscape is strewn with boulders, its topography formed from piles of them, its flat fields dotted with them. These boulders are the remnants of a once mighty mountain -- an ancient mountain. People stand in awe of those rough, angular slabs of granite, standing a mile high. But those are the young whippersnappers. This mountain is so old that it's just a pile of bones, devoid of connective tissue or fleshy covering. It's a corpse of a mountain that has half buried itself. the ancient mountain is now bone-smooth boulders its age unsung