Basalt

By John I. Blair

In January, 1953,

I found this dark stone

On the California shore

Amid the wrack and shells

Where chill Pacific surf rushed in

And the tumbled coastal range

Seemed to all but vibrate.

It was my first sight of the sea;

All the beach was built of cobbles,

Black as night,

A rough, funereal rim

To an inconstant continent

Accreted by apocalyptic

Collisions in slow motion.

I don’t know if this basalt

Was born of ancient agonies

Far out in the ocean

On some then-tropic isle

Or more recent gouts of lava

Jetted cataclysmically

From grinding, drifting plates.

All I saw at not-quite-twelve:

A preternaturally smooth

And silent rock, absorbent of all light,

That might take and shelter secrets,

Even mine. I pocketed the thing,

Still wet from surf, smelling

Of kelp, sticky with foam.

And now, another century,

I keep it at my desk,

Holding it from time to time

To feel the coolness, hardness,

Indifference to me, or life,

Gaia’s heart exposed

Here in my warm and human hand.

©2009 John I. Blair