I sit on the rock pile on the edge of my mother's land in the mountains.
A high noon sun and voices from the clearing try to move me.
Though the Sun reaches everywhere, no one will look here for me.
In the past, my walks through the woods
always ended in this place where nothing ever changes.
As I shift, grey rocks shift, loose as the day the cauliflower farmer -
who once owned the south side of Margaretville Mountain -
wrestled them from the earth and tossed them here.
To reach here, I had to fight long strands of wild roses
that yield small yellow flowers only when the heat is fierce.

Lichen cover a low boulder
like barnacles on the back of a whale breeching at sea,
and catch motes of dust beneath their thalli.

Webs of small brown spiders tremble in the wind.
An ant or two forages on the surfaces.
Leaves and animal dung crumble in the crevices.
A large black spider eyes me and vanishes when I move.
A young aspen, sumac, white flowered weeds and a wild rose
grow in the heart of the rock pile.
Tortured rods of rust, mangled barbed wire, and split posts -
the final work of the cauliflower farmer -
are caught here forever.
Patches of moss and leaves pool
on the softly indented centers of the largest stones.

In time, someone will bend down here,
run his or her hands through fine black soil,
and marvel at how everything changes.



						Brandywine
						6/11/97