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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

What the hills are made of is shapeless in the night.

Plotted points drawn across an opaque sky

Like a line graphed against the constant horizon 

Charting the intensity of disruptions over time,

And then filled in with darkness.

Which somehow holds much of the earth in its grip

Even when the moon is so close, right there,

As brilliant as a starburst

Speeding lines of light a hundred thousand miles down

To reach the upturned earth.

But the ground is stubborn, and remains itself, 

And stops the sky from its endless falling. 


The rocks spend a million years pretending to be mountains

And sometimes it works. 

Shelter found in the shadows

of these small pieces of the earth thick on the ground,

As silent and singular as snowflakes

Formed around a single speck of dust. 


Those things that build themselves in solitary assembly 

Are not the same as those with needs.

The bud lives in the leaf, the seed in the soil,

The flower needs the bee

And they signal to each other, 

Like the song in the lark 

and the spark in the dark

That casts out for another.


But the earth and the sky have no eyes to see,

No lover to seek, no stories to speak. 

The crystals they shape are not for display. 

They build themselves slow, 

they build as they go. 

Some things bond, and that bond holds, 

And something starts to grow. 


The wind blows and the earth shakes,

the lava pours and the snow flakes, 

A trillion waves collapse and break, and a trillion more are made. 

But the glow in the rocks and the roll in the drops, 

The secret that the water knows, and the stones,

Is that the time that has passed, and the time that remains,

Leave proof of infinite ways to change.



Submitted: November 07, 2020

© Copyright 2020 Lila Garza. All rights reserved.

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