Sleeping Giants
There are days that I walk by
rocks that like to talk to me on the trails,
and I ask them, "What are you doing today?"
They always say, "We are doing what nothing does,"
but I remind them that there is much to achieve in a day.
We talk about keeping watch over the nesting birds, or
why the juniper should camp somewhere else, or
how I could roll them down a hill for fun,
but they prefer to rest,
for apparently, when you are a rock, it is easy to
do nothing as nothing does all day.
Some are as large as cars, rugged as travel luggage,
and I have heard them mumble of a millennia ago –
How water settled into dimples,
and cracked their faces,
and disfigured bodies,
yet they maintain such a good attitude about things.
They don’t complain,
they don’t mind being walked upon,
or relocated,
or tattooed with oddities,
or even shaped into the Gates of Hell.
I have asked the elders
how different life is on the surface,
what it’s like on the move a few inches each century,
and who they miss below,
but they are aloof,
and when they do share, I am not even sure what to make of it.
Sometimes I think that they were just busy doing what nothing does
and I had stirred them from a deep sleep.
Author’s note: A poem of time in nature, through the lens of magical realism, where nature isn’t just a setting, but becomes a character, with its own agency and magical qualities. The boundaries between the human and natural realms often blur, creating a sense of interconnectedness and harmony.
“My most important problem was destroying the lines of demarcation that separate what seems real from what seems fantastic.”
This poem is published through Wild Words, a weekly newsletter that delivers one new poem, once a week – nothing more, nothing less. I often write on themes of nature, beauty, and culture, and regionally locate my writings in Texas and throughout Latin America. The stylistic hallmarks of my poetry are rooted in adventure, nostalgia, wanderlust, discovery, and everyday life. You can subscribe below.
