This rock remembers curvature of clay
That cradled him beneath a fragrant pine.
The sunset dipped her paintbrush in the bay
And tinted rivers red with evening wine.
The centuries have smoothed his granite face
And rounded razored edges of his tongue.
Upheaved, he wakes within a mob’s embrace—
Marauders jeer that traitors must be hung.
When venom burns their veins and blinds their eyes,
The riots and the rage inebriate
And fuel thirst for liquor laced with lies.
The hands that hurl the rocks are hard with hate.
But stones that broke the water left no shard—
The ripples stilled, and glass remained unmarred.
~The Capitol, Washington, DC, January 6, 2021
