Fist

By Roy Doughty
Written 6/17/07

Chunks of rock as large as cars clump at the roadside,
Shucked from the wall of cliff.  The shear-lines have
Made them scooped and scalloped.  They are beautiful.
Even in their stone way of being we suspect that they
Feel the duel weights of connection and separation,
Hardness and giving way: fathers and sons.
Theirs is a muscular river of mineral awareness,
Flowing with ancient slowness, not only in the blood,
But in the bone, and below that, in the calcite structures
Older than bone, in ice-work, in sun-grind, in shearing
Forces that counter the maternal conglomeration
With something that could only be melded in fire, cracked by ice.
Theirs is the thunder-voice that labors deeply
As the masculine forging of love’s most durable bond.

Leave a Reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.