What drove a hand below the surface
deeper than forgotten,
into the black of wet mud, is gone. But here, in this pit-
history of loss, cool of decay
and not enough sand-
and so it reached further, past time-soaked
space, until nail and finger bent
hard against mountain and plate,
continental shelf, some Great Divide
between your world and mine, seen unseen and
quarried into light,
your Olmec face.
Hard to believe- but when planting a garden of sages tonight, I seriously found a stone head in the mud, about arms reach down. Not sure why I kept reaching, or why I so confidently lifted it out from the blackness, wondering what a strangely round thing it was.
A face carved of rock- like lava, & very heavy.