Catawba Clay

Folks have beenDigging and working and firingClay here for hundreds of years.The story of how the clayCame to be though,How it arrived here is, of course,–A long story.–It is also a violent andEternally silencedBy time story.–(Violence is not always full ofSound and speed—The most violentthings—things that can push upAnd pull apartGeography are usually–Silent and slow.)–Before the Blue Ridge,Those rocks wereBuried deep and heatedUnder an earth and stone wave–And pressed and folded and swirledAnd condensed and changed—Transfigured in a more deliberate kiln—–Perhaps the mind of God.–All this happened long before you got here.–As they rose andAfter they rose,They hemorrhagedAll sorts of shiny things,Mica and schist,Garnet and quartz,–And rutile—–Into the ground and rollingAnd grinding down streamsTo become part of the clay—Nature’s axel greaseTo keep big things moving–(All things have places to goAnd each must have time to get there—–No things are late,And all things must move).–Its pensive browMight seem to tell us thatDeath is a dream of stasis,But when I see this stone face,This particular one withBlue lines of rutile, made byBBC’s big hands,–I look at its eyesPointed thirty degreesAbove the horizon to the skyWith sagging cobalt pupils,–Thinking of where its parts have been:–Fallen to the bottom of aGiant shallow inland lake,Encrypted in stone and heat,Risen to such heights,Pushed back to the ground,–And moving without endToward a sea yet unmade.—-Copyright 2012