Rock of Ages
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by Gordon Forbes
The rock in my hand hides its story-polished surface a facade.
Its beginnings a chip off rock wall-
tumbled, scraped, broken
by persistent glaciers.
It fell into ice-blue streams
ground into sandy beaches
its rough edges honed and washed
'til all sharpness disappeared.
It lay there for eons until
some hand found it, washed it,
loved it into a holy relic,
laying here in my praying hands.
At Shalem's Poetry Quiet Day in May, participants were asked to pick out three objects from a lush altar of flowers, fruit, branches, candies, rocks, and other signs of newness in the present. Gordon's poem came from that experience.
© 2008 The Shalem Institute.