PMS 14 | 2015
In the bare-limbed wood near Panthertown,saplings’ lavender buds drift like clouds
between the oaks. I stumble over a maple tree
that spills around a boulder, bends along
the rock’s edges. Ahead, the granite dome
of Laurel Knob swells above the hills
that wash to the Atlantic. The sky leaks
thin rivulets of silvery light down
the dome. I lean against the rigid curve
and trace lines that water has etched
into granite. All I grasp of this or any stone
are its weaknesses: the cracks, flakes,
broken edges, and grooves water has worn,
I scale. Emerson says an ocean is a large drop
and a drop holds a small ocean. I long for that
undulation in everything, all that
appears as wavy as an antique mirror:
the buds that soon dissipate like morning
mist, that maple bending round rock
like a river diverted, even the steadfast
stone. May it crest, trough, crest again.