george korolog

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Soul Stone

Rocks are notoriously deceptive, laying strata, crushing time,
muting revelation, tearing crevasse, murmuring grey

through arroyo, canyon and ravine, billowing earth for
stone to weigh, igneous heart, the swell of obsidian sentiment

bursting forth, quavering, lurching in a metamorphic
ballet of purchase and pitch where rock readies, feet to root;

a marble palette of cautious gait and wounded step, blending skin
and sand into warm scab relics, our bleeding antique tapestry.

We craft our paths with sediment, stand within the edifice,
clamber and crawl inside the caved and pitted shell,

lay with them, grasp them in our hands, feel grain,
flake and texture; indiscrete scrapes across our skin,

carve our stories on them, paint them and bare them boldly
for rank and power, the windswept flint of our imagination,

bow and stand in awe of them, recant our wickedness beneath
them, pressing dirge, the crag and slab of our sins, while we

hew, measure, speak of creation and plant tired hearts in the ancient
alluvial clay that lured us down from the trees to mate with stone.

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