wildwestwind: To a rock

Michael's Fáilte

Welcome to these writing warmups, blatherings, rantings, meditations, perorations, salutations, latest and those on time, those narrative, declarative, interrogative, gollywogative and other outdated, belated, simulated musings, perusings, shavings and other close calls, with no disrespect intended, that's why no real names included whenever impossible to avoid the guilt that came in the crib for uttering something that would hurt or injure those in authority, being of everlasting servitude to all and sundry, having chosen the road not taken and the frost on the pumpkin long before the kettle turned black or the cat found its own tail fascinating,
Your humble servant, etc.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

To a rock

I look towards you, oh rock, with words on the tip of my tongue, a song, a vibration to you, I suppose. I see you there. I pass your way. I pick you up and wonder what you've seen. If you could speak what heat would come out of your mouth. What depths you could reach. What extremes before one of our kind ever stepped foot on you and instantly regretted it.

Your pockmarked skin tells me how your story will go from here, shadows and curvature for an ant to explore, defying measurement and our smug science...

You will outlast me, that's certain but I'm not envious. Your world's so invested with my own imagination, bringing to you the concepts of journey and narrative but it's ridiculous, don't you think?

You don't, do you? Think, that is.

Perhaps you think that makes you superior but here I go again investing you with my own ways like Walt Disney making the mice talk to each other in squeaky human kid voices. What if I called you a stone, oh rock? What would you do then, eh?