Silent she greets me every
morning as I open up the house;
collects my smiles, hears my sighs;
my rock of ages—past and yet to come.
Silent she listened once to autumn sighs of
Lenape maid who watched her warrior man
dance and whoop in my back yard, then
fade into the forest trees to fight the strangers
threatening to change the only world she knew.
Listened again as Lenape lament turned into summer
songs of Dutch haus-frau beating her rugs on
clothes-lines strung between my ancient oaks.
Later heard the wintry roar of guns as
tattered soldiers tramped across this ground,
weary, cold, but ever hopeful that their revolutionary
hopes would usher in a spring of independence peace.
But long before the Lenape or any other humans made their
mark upon this land, my rock had rested eons in her
spot, remembering her journey from those distant rocky
tors, the ache of glacial ice that scraped and pushed and
prodded her through ages and ages of time, until a warming earth
took off her frozen coat, and left my rock alone,
abandoned here; her sisters, cousins scattered far and wide.
Perhaps her scrabbled trek from home so far away;
perhaps her lonely vigil through time beyond
imagining; perhaps her silent witness to the
history of this space; perhaps all these have given her the
graces that she gives to me each day,
sitting there beneath my bordering trees;
solid, firm, and still—she anchors me in
here and now; reminds me of how tiny is my
life, yet how immensely prized each moment
given me to live and love and hope.