A Meditation on Resilience
A scrape on a stone, permanent
as it seems, short as it is
next to the length of the light
of the cosmos, lasts
just a tad longer than a tattoo.
While a stick drawn
through desert sand, pushes
up grain, forms little walls
into the sides of a tiny grand
canyon for honey pot ants,
lasts a long while until
wind brushes the empty space
with more sand, paves the surface, fills it
in with time, turns it into some forgotten
destination, long after the end
of tourism, but way before the sun
blips out, and before the ink dries up.
Eventually, rain finally
falls, pools, rivers its way
downhill, which, to a seagull’s eye,
looks like lightning patterned veins
extending down from the crest
of a dune, small streams of clear blue
blood returning to the heart, pushed
and pulled by gravity,
compelled to the salted sea
on which a boat, black speck,
jibes downwind, leaving
a wake disappearing
behind it
without a second
thought.