Eight hundred million years ago
this rock was formed from molten magma.
During the last Ice Age
it was shorn from a cliff as a glacier passed by.
Yesterday I handed it to you.
It was a pinnacle moment,
basking in the sun beside a cheerful brook,
surrounded by wildflowers.
Our feet were sore after the three-mile ascent.
I took off my boots to feel the spongy grass,
wade through the icy stream
and pluck a smooth stone from its Alpine bed,
polished by eons.
“Feel the temperature of the earth,” I said,
offering you a tiny piece of the mountain,
bone of the Sierra, flesh of my flesh.
It was my way of saying I love you
and all the things we share.
I tucked it away as we started our descent,
a souvenir of our elation,
an oath of allegiance
as the continent yawns between us.
So when the earth moves unexpectedly
or you feel a fever coming on,
clasp this stone
and remember that day in Sky Meadow.
When the temperature was just right.
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