In Honors Geology, part of our exam
was to identify fifty rocks. Around the room
we shambled inspecting the specimens
and writing down our answers
under the watchful eyes of Dr. Voorhies,
glacial blue amplified by thick-lensed glasses.
I have forgotten most of their names.
I still can’t tell gypsum from feldspar.
But I have watched the Grand Canyon opening
its mouth wider and wider, saying Ah
the farther west I drove along the little South Rim road.
I have found a heart-shaped stone on the shore
of Whidbey Island, mottled gray, water-rubbed.
I have observed the exposed layers of earth
in highway cuts, like revealed tomb-secrets.
Sea-sprayed, I have seen Dover’s chalk cliffs
grow closer and closer on a crossing from France.
The white sands of the northwest Gulf of Mexico
are quartz crystals swept down eons ago by torrents
of ice-melt from the Appalachians,
and water has gnawed limestone away into gothic caves.
Unchanging until outside forces move upon them,
then they are eroded or sculpted into shapes
infinite and unique, like us, like every heart.
Karen McAferty Morris’ inspiration comes from nature and everyday people. Recognized for its “appeal to the senses, the intellect, and the imagination,” her work has appeared in The Louisville Review, Persimmon Tree, Canary, and Rust & Moth. She is lucky enough to live on a bay in the Florida panhandle.
Nice comparison of rock “collections.” I’m willing to bet Dr, Voorhies valued his collection as much as you value your personal collection. They were poetry to him in a way. It just occurred to me though that your words will last just as forever as the physical rocks. Great layers of depth!