Poetry
The Bench at Castle Brags Rock

Emma Lou Thayne
Volume 23, No. 4

How can that lone rock be earth and heaven? 
It isn't necessary to explain. 

Only that a far from frail fragment of my canyon 
Now graces the end of my world. 

In the time I sleep beside it 
The two-ton rock will mark my last-minute journey 

From the certain wisdom of white clouds 
This early May morning jostling softly 

For no position over the green graph of my mountains 
Holding up the sky. This, this is the life 

I longed for and got to live 
Where I traveled without maps and never lost 

Hearing the waters, the Infinite alive in them 
With the birds knowing morning. 

In the scent of a newborn and the memory of a child, 
Lying on my back watching, in blue sky or black 

The Light fingering for my hand, telling of this ancient Rock 
Bringing up the splatters of silver 

Shining among lichen and the rough brinks 
Of the Rock made Bench. Mounted by knowing landscaper 

Amid the fresh Rose of Sharon and privet and under a 
Sliver of a newleafed maple that will grow into shade, 

It will harbor the mulch of red leaves, the white of 
Snow, the miraculous breath of Spring 

And this May knowing of exactly where I'll be.

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