Do rocks have memories?
Do they remember an afternoon
when seven year old boys
clambered barefoot over
sun warmed granite slopes
covered with dried and brittle lichens
that scratched and crumbled
under their bare feet?
The boys emerged from the water
like the first amphibians,
only to smell the hashed browns
sizzling in the cast iron pan,
attended to for the moment by eager gulls
watching from a distance. After the meal,
after the ritual skillet scrubbing and the story telling,
the fire dwindling, the light faded,
as did the confidence,
and the starry firmament emerged,
the cry of loons, the Perseid wonders
and the aurora borealis.
I looked up at the stars and pledged my troth.
A wolf answered with it’s own cry,
and a descending hand gently touched my chest.
I remember you, mother.
We need to walk together some more,
for your voice has grown distant.