All the air is gray, a hiss and sigh
of vapors from the towering sky
dropping unseen needles, shimmering light
into the streams of water wandering by.
My coat has garnered particles of white
and shining, heavy from the slippery site.
My hood covers my eyes and hides my face
from rain, from animation, and from light.
Fat stone I am, the granite of the place.
I am the hieroglyph of human race.
The lines are written in the living eyes,
the crevices and creases of my face.
We all washed up and revealed to the skies
to bear the storm, the air to which we rise.
Hope! Stones cry out, rejoice the withering rite
that makes us pleasing to the Father’s eyes.