I feel it crumbling, as Sisyphus might
watching his burden roll back down,
cracks snaking on the surface of his heart.
The rock is demanding retrieval again.
As to why he keeps at it, perhaps
it is for the same reason that we read
meaning in things: Tracery of veins on a leaf,
network of bones that make up a wing.
Skeins of galaxies in space, the integrity
of a single snowflake & starburst ice
crusting on a lake. But it takes so little
for patterns to unravel. A rock can shatter
what’s not even especially fragile. Unexpected
death, inability to love. Evil that will not be
reconciled. Nonetheless, if you can,
resist the instinct for sadness
over shriveled leaf & broken bird
or the revelation that the Hubble telescope
can see only the past. Forgive the unforgiving
winter & the dangers of thin ice.
Continue pushing the rock.
