I cannot tell the years
When I was torn from mountain top
By fire lashed rain and sintering frost
Tumbled, cracked, thrown from cataract
Until
Worn near to dust
A leisured swing, from bank to bank
Like a cradled child
And then washed to
What you would call
Primordial sea
To sink
To rest
And covered
I cannot tell the years
A blanket and a counterpane
I sleep

A harsh awakening,
The sea long dry
Continents clash and in their conflict crush
Pressed against fellows,
Made one
Not by camaraderie or mutual will
But unrelenting pressure
Then thrust and twisted, set on end
Arched and pointing skyward

And then, I cannot tell the years
To feel again the wind rush waves,
Vulcan’s tempering undone by silken lapping seas
And so
Again
To dust
And float past gull and net and plastic jetsam
To sink once more
And rest