Patient as a Rock

The earth is constantly turning one thing into another.

Not creative but creating.

Becoming.

A leaf drops in a forest and keeps falling

after it hits the ground —

softening, darkening,

trading its green

for the brown of soil.

Fungus threads it through,

patient as rot.

A fallen branch loosens its fibers

one slow tug at a time.

Rain returns.

Sometimes it appears nothing is happening —

the woods holding still,

forest floor lying undisturbed —

but layers are being laid:

leaves, sediment, shells.

The fallen becomes the buried.

The buried becomes weight.

Weight becomes pressure.

Pressure becomes stone.

Stone becomes crust,

folded,

crushed,

heated,

melted,

mixed.

Then: cooling.

Then: crystal.

Minerals locking into place

in the dark

with no witness.

The forest makes soil.

The soil makes rock.

The rock returns

as mountain,

as sand,

as this thin skin we stand on.

Not creative.

The creating.

Becoming.