Imagine how long it took to form each
solid face of rock, those shoulders
hunched in grey-cloaked silhouette
against the coast— how long
wind and weather chipped away
(to flake, to rubble, and to grit)
what yet withstands the elements
and lodges in the flesh of the unshod
foot. Updrafts of air that wide-
winged birds will ride, alone
in so much space; cathedrals of fog,
buttressed above all that unrelenting
flint. And yet each loosened orb,
each pock-marked surface, moon-like,
gouged by water, wrapped in yellow strands
of kelp, scribes me with grainy hope.
—Luisa A. Igloria
11 03 2011
In response to an entry from The Morning Porch.
Thanks also to Beth Adams for the inspiration from some of her recent work.