Graduating to Wet Stones

Metamorphism He is beautiful and still, untouched within, a mountainside in December, an estuary at dawn. I sat in his cove knapping flint to ax, syllables to lead- an assault on his granite-face. I stood on his embankment, hurling stone after stone and did not break his surface. It will take a disaster, an excavation team, a dam-fissure or a Judas-kiss to know, to show him, to see the shift in texture, or the trace footprints I've left behind.

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