Written By:


Janet Boggia

“Just a rock,” I say, about to hurl the small boulder into the rapids.

Photo by Dennis Larsen from Pixabay

I take her in my hands, feel the jagged Z, the break

from her ancient Earth layer

bond severed                                    

sharp edge, sleek side

shades of azure, cerulean blue (or is it green?), veins of gray

moving into black

gleaming in the late afternoon haze.

I bring her to my cheek, close my eyes, inhale

her scent

remnants of time before time

sense the searing melting plasmic heat

of her birth oozing thick, building, rising, spewing and folding

blasting she reaches the surface

meeting air

for the first time after a billion years in the belly of her mother

Earth, who welcomes her, wraps her in a blanket of snow and rain.

I press her to my ear, “You hold me old,” she whispers

“When I was young I pierced the clouds, nourished by sun

Green growth verdant lushness tickled my body—hawk lived on me, soared

talons grasping furry breakfasts for his mate

In the midnights I watched my ancestors light the sky—rapture—I’m told a star

in the long ago

burst and in its dying splendor gave our mother life.”

Just for a moment, I brush her with my lips

feel her sculped by churling waters slammed and shaped

by lost limbs of gnarly mountain pines

clasp the bank with tired elemental fingers until zapped by summer storms’ electric strikes

her feeble grip pried loose by a

soft bang

finally dislodged, letting go, falling

onto the river’s bank below

where I found her.

“Just a rock,” I said, reaching . . .

Photo by NEOM on Unsplash