Deliece Blanchard, Mountain Waterfall (Artist Website, Facebook, Instagram)
Oil on canvas
24 x 20”
The Sawkill glitters too bright. All the children want to do
is sing. Clouds outpace the currents, attempting an upbeat
weather. We toss boots to shore and wade through shards
of light to find the rock to bear your name. As if a rock
could be a man, as if you were square or oval, mossy
or blue, hollow, or densely brooding in regions bereft
of place. We swerve around you like minnows, hurried glints
no more than the weight of glacial flint, or after-tones
of tumbles and clanks. Even this river can’t help making song.
Someone told a joke about a rock telling a joke about a rock
telling a joke, the kind you might tell. Waters churn psychedelically
above us and above that, gnats, then sky with its blue
erosions. Your daughter says these are Devonian relics
of glacial outwash. Today we will swallow an eon of stones.
My brother, can we ever know all you held?
Geode of immense cathedrals, blazing cosmic noise.
Choirs lip-syncing your favorite Zappa songs.