spirit of the stone

history and truth live on in stone.

in the bones of dinosaurs

at hell creek, montana

and the jungled ruins in guatamala,

the bestiaries on the walls of lascaux,

the dancers carved on the terrace

of the leper king at angkor wat.

the taliban know the truth of stone

and defaced a buddha with their cannons.

as did bonaparte's men aiming at the sphinx.

who would remember the nabateans?

or their acropolis on the limestone hill

of avdat in the negev? from peter o'toole's

silly song echoing off the walls of petra?

they left no literature, just their cities carved in stone.

do the bedouin living in their black tents or under

corrugated sheets of iron, still shepherding

their goats on the plain below, still know?

i kissed the stone of unction at golgotha

placed where the body of jesus was anointed

by joseph of aramithea and i was shocked

to find myself spilling electric tears,

adding my salt to the flood that has bathed

this stone pressed by countless lips.

i walked down through the tunneled streets

to the western wall, gazed at the weeds

that sprout in the gaps of its stony face,

waiting for the spirit of the moment to arrive.

i wrote the customary prayer on a scrap of paper

torn from my notebook and placed it in a crack

between the blocks in the customary way.

i prayed that whatever happened,

i would know the truth of it,

and eventually,

i did.