by Scott T. Hutchison
The word petr, in ancient Greek, encompasses
the broad spectrum of rock; when granite, or shale,
or limestone or quartzite, basalt, gypsum or chalk
meets a rainy ichor, then the rarified essence
coursing through god-veins sprinkles or drizzles
or deluges life-gift, in the form of their
downpouring tears--and we are reminded
by distinct and divine odors: the gods are alive.
Scree and boulder, gravel and alabaster, pebble
and sediment, fine-grained clay, sand and cementation
conglomerates and mudstone: add
to their sweet, hardened faces the fine
misty blessings of showering rain,
and the memories of the region—centuries
and eons of essence, spore, pollen, trees breath,
wind-sigh, lichen clutch, rhizomes, seeds,
animal scat, insect skitter, add the scant leavings
of all deaths that inevitably diminish and settle—
and in each uniquely sacred place
a rare scent rises and revives, with warming shafts
of returning sunlight, asking the pantheon of old gods
to once again dance along the stone walls and ledges,
the scars and outcroppings perfumed with all creation,
by the scent of glorious fall and ruin.
Scott T. Hutchison is the author of two books of poetry, Reining In (BlackBird Press) and Moonshine Narratives (Main Street Rag Publishing). His work has appeared in The Fourth River, Split Rock Review, Reckoning, and The Georgia Review. New work is forthcoming in Atlanta Review, The Thieving Magpie, The Opiate, and Trampset.