Stony

A stone stands on a hill.
A sentry, waiting for a sign,
Standing in the grass,
Secure in solitude
It moves among the days with indifference.
A dispassionate spectator,
It stands aloof,
Watches the wind play with the grass,
Marks each day by the sunrise.

So it seemed to be, to me,
The pattern of my days.

Though blades of grass may brush the stone,
It heeds them not.
But one day, a newcomer arose.
Unlike the repeating grass,
It sent its tendrils into the air,
It gripped the stone and began to climb.

At first I didn't notice these slight bonds
As they wrapped about me--
One cannot feel if one does not move.

The stone bestowed the name "Rose"
And wild rose wrapped itself around stone.
Tendrils sought out hidden fissures,
Working toward the stony heart.
Dark green leaves caught the unused sun,
Roots drank from the giving rain.

Soon I realized I would not escape.
I wanted the delicate tight pain
Of saying good-bye,
The joy of a blooming smile.

The rose's first bloom seemed a miracle,
And the stone could only wonder.
Every leaf was a blessing,
Every thorn was a membrance,
Every tendril a discovery.

With every passing smile
I gather redemption like sunbeams.
With every beat of my heart I hear
A whispery scratching of thorns on stone.
With every meeting I tremble.

Pressure grew inch by inch
As the rose gripped the stone.
Its hidden, ageless essence splintered.

I knew what price I'd have to pay,
I knew the risk I took.
I am neither foolish nor wise,
But am caught by an ancient force.
The rising sun is no less a slave,
The moon no more a master.
I can only take my appointed course,
And taste every drop of joy and sorrow
As it comes to my lips.
I can only seek the light that burns me
Like the fire of thorns.

The stone's exposed heart gathered the sun,
And melted like a miracle.

Paul Beltman
11/20/94