Sunday
Sep202009
Bedrock
Sunday, September 20, 2009 at 09:00AM Didn't think it was so far down, nor so quick,
mistaking my altitude.
Not the grainy, polished granite of graves
where I listen for my fathers
and hear my voice's echo on the loving letters
that generations of gruff, black-handed masons
magic out of the earth's cooling core.
They know more of stone than I,
my spine arched over streaming, shattered needles
where there is no further to fall,
the bedrock, the ground of being,
the end of plans.
There is no bed here, no sleep,
no dust or ash, no death.
Death needs softer ground
and here the name my father gave
becomes its own gift to me,
whispers of a foothold big enough to stand on
and raise my vertical head.
View Printer Friendly Version
Email Article to Friend
Reader Comments