Name it

I call it A Rock in the Cosmos,

a rock on the ground with no name.

But let’s be real. It is a rock,

not a rock-on-the-ground metaphor,

not a descriptive target: a white, porous

igneous outcast atop a scaly wind-blown

nob here in the cowboy Big Bend

in mysterious Springtime. It

stimulates. Does it recognize

something of its firey history

or the bottom of the swaying Sea,

or a bit of a bright Star – its ancestry?

No matter, of itself it is enough.

Ok, let’s be real, it is a rock

on the ground in the Cosmos.

It is white, porous, igneous.

The rock can never know

the rising Sun, the waning Moon,

the ten thousand waves, but there

is this rock in my mind, too,

not on the ground, and this

mysterious non-stop, air-like chorus

accompanying all this and more.