A Naturalist’s Poem
I Dont Know
But I wish plants were conscious. And I could for one instant experience time as patiently as a piñon. Waiting for rain in the desert.
Another day. Another year. A hundred.
Spending adolescence making nuts before Hinduism. And still doing so, after the radio and internet spread their signals on the wind.
And I wish the rocks were conscious too.
Some say they are. They say everything is. Before anything else. Consciousness is there.
I dont know. But I wish it were in rocks.
The slow birth of granite. Deep in the earth. Watching the rise and hardening and cooling and crystalizing. Of millions of years.
Until that instant. Where a cliff face is born.
And it turns to face its twinkling silicates to the sun. And a piece falls away. An ordinary boulder. A rock. A cobble. A pebble. A grain of sand. Dust on the wind.
I hold the rock in my hand.
Dust on my sleeve. Only briefly do I see something special. In an ordinary stone. Millions upon millions of years staring back.
And what it sees in me?
The time there is too short to tell. If I held you for another hundred years. It still would be too fleeting a time to catch even a tiny glimpse of me.
And my time. An ordinary stone. I toss away and walk on my day. Wishing for one instant, I were as patient as they. But maybe if they are conscious? I dont know. Maybe they are. When my day comes and my dust blows on the wind. Then I will know the same patience that stones and ancient trees know.
All photography by @Light_On_Flowerscapes
Formatting by @bfjake