Sunday, June 25, 2017

I Remember the Rocks

I remember the rocks on Rolling Hills
the white soft and sparkly rocks
that illuminated my hand
before it found a voice
Will this rock write? 

Or the clear infracted marbles on Cherry Hills
their sheer faces swirling and glassed off
pitted like craters created by comets
that somehow dropped only in front of Lenny's house at 12 O'clock noon
Gifts from the moon?

Then the red and black lava rocks on Regier
with bubbly pores blinking water
popping and crackling next to my tiny ear
after being held against my twisting tongue
My eyes were always on the ground
in the present

I remember when I felt my first real sand in California
washing off the soft
then rough
millions of tiny grains
when that stranger yelled "Son of a Bitch!"
What does 'Son of a Bitch' mean?

I remember the first time I saw black galena
a whole huge pile stacked on the survivors' shore
Black glass button eyes? From Volcanoes? How did they get here?
in that remote place where I grew from mystified to mortified
all the while only a few shores and even fewer years later
were the smooth clacking palm-sized tumbling rocks in Green Bay
Were those brought in and dumped there, too?

I remember thinking it all happened by accident
Sometimes I still do and I blame you
ancient and glittering and grounded
that such seemingly inanimate objects comforted me
back when I began to dream about rocks
and I still do

1 comment:

Julie said...

I'll bet Miles dreams about rocks, too!