Like a Monument

Like a Monument

(“Yet whatever gains I had, these I have come to regard as loss because of Christ.” Philippians 3:7)

The stone jutted from the muddy ground and
stood like a monument to a nameless hero
or
saint,
or trouble,
or oration,
or a quaint way of sizing up the history
of a name nearly forgotten.

You can see the arms from here, pointing
down to shield the graveled feet from
umbrellas of rain that threatened to
drown its memory.

And yet, what is gained by chiseling
every victory in granite,
every loss in craggy rock? Would there be
a directory to tell who had visited and
how long they stayed?

The stone was uncut. That was clear. And so,
changed by perception only,
it could outlast the longest tenure you or I
could remain. The stone was massive.
This was shadow.
And obscured the view of the open meadow
unless you climbed it carefully,
kept your footing,
found your handholds,
and looked toward the west where the
golden-eye of the sky shone in the
late afternoon.

So travelers who stop merely to catch their breath
follow the trough that carries the rain between the hills.
Not looking back, the sun beckons
in pink and gray shadows behind the distant cliffs.