Is it not enough that

The dolphin on his silver back

Carries the heaving sea?

Must he also bear the sins of Carthage?

Must the weeping mother

Before her son’s sepulcher

Grow old awaiting the angel

Who will roll away the capstone?

The mother watches her living son

Cling to footholds and niches of the cliff,

His fingers searching for a crack,

Sweat pouring from his pate.

Why doesn’t he hammer a pin

Into the rock face,

Attach a rope,

Move safely?

She is willing to be his net:

To break his fall with her soft body,

To die saving him.

There is a song in the stone,

But it is only in the ancient stone,

Worn by running water,

That we can hear the song:

Fire made me

And I cooled on the plain,

When the moon loved the earth

And her near touch

Made the earth swell and heave.

Water wore me

And wore this winding valley.

I sit small in my stream

Watching the moon walk away.

January 9^th, 2008