We stones remember being lava.
Remember when we were liquid hot
and glowed orange. Other rocks
sat in rubbling heaps nearby
warming themselves on our molten grace
content to be consoled by ancient dreams
in which they too, flowed.
We stones recall the raptors
who prowled and scrapped and danced
between the branches of our viscous rivers
before leaving bones behind.
Mountains trembled at our passionate intensity,
who could hold such radiant streams?
Crusted now and cooled to gray,
pressed into flinty solidity,
we squat steadfast in the gritty pile,
we hold a fiery spark inside.