A rock raised up
by the roots of
a wind-thrown oak—
nothing unusual,
just a dark red
chunk of bedrock
gripped by a trio
of roots with black
cracked bark—
I saw it had been
washed clean by
who knows how
many storms & still
held aloft, as if in
some parting gesture
toward the celestial
powers that did
the tree in, saying Here,
take your damn
rock back.
Damn!
Oh, I like this a lot, Dave. Especially the zing! of the ending.
Oh good. Thanks. I wasn’t sure last night whether that worked or not, but the blog demanded to be fed — you know how it is.
Gotta love those mischievous trees.
Yep.
It’s that pat acceptance of the meteoric origin of the ground that gets me.