After snow melt we notice
how the meadow
outside our bedroom window
has grown uneven rows of stones,
some large as pumpkins,
and pushed new born boulders
up through the icy crust
in round rugged monoliths
We ask, “When will this end,
this ever changing strata,
when will we know a landscape
we can say is certain?”
It’s the same question, we suspect,
one generation after another,
and rub our legs and feet together
in places the skin is most tender,
finally able to cuddle away fear
in this mix of earth’s ova,
its rocks, ores and magma
For this moment with our eyes
we hold each other’s faces fast,
for even they are changing