Precambrian
Sept 10 2009


I’m following the path of least resistance
through the woods,
where plants are trampled, roots exposed.
I scoop-up a small grey stone,
take pleasure in its heft
its cool density
its smooth round edges.

From countless centuries
spent on an ancient lake-bed.
Or pebble beach
pummelled by waves,
gently rocked
in long slow swells.
Hard to tell
how it found its way
to this land-locked path,
the forest floor
worn down so fast
by human foot-steps.

It feels warm, now
in my hand,
worrying-away at it.
Like a nun
compulsively fingering her rosaries,
asking forgiveness
giving praise.

I am brief, evanescent
compared to this ancient object.
And in my hasty irreverence
toss it off into the forest,
where it will remain
undisturbed, unchanged,
utterly faithful
to its nature.
To be picked-up again, perhaps
in who knows how many millennia;
as if passed hand-to-hand
reaching across the ages.