One man hammers stone
in the middle of a quarry; another
cuts blocks from its side. In faraway cities
monuments are constructed, and the abandoned
pit fills with water and fish. Grain by grain
the mountains diminish. In one sacred story
Christ bends to write in the sand; today, in this place,
clouds shadow goldenrod fringe: bees and flies
moan with the pleasures of pollen
smeared on abdomens. With legs heavy
from treasure, it’s difficult to remember
that farther north polar bears starve
as sea-ice recedes. Where we’ve fractured
the earth’s scapula, grief shudders involuntarily
like an aspen leaf. Some would have us believe
that death is consensual. We should practice
gratefulness, as Basho did, who gave thanks
for teeth to chew his evening meal of dried salmon.
The wind erases most of what’s written
in the sand. The rain washes the rest.