For a billion years
incomprehensible quartz,
brilliant white matter,
brilliant grey matter,
lost in thought
in the mountain's head,
until the matter
begins to be broken
down by a clutching root,
by the drizzle
of sorrow,
by the melted snow,
by heat.
Here is a certain fate,
a surfacing of the truth
in dolerite,
a grand idea
giving way to a frog-pond,
a making of room
for a luminous fungus,
a bared breast
adorned with lichen,
a chronic enterprise
grappled
apart
by a dawdling echidna.
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