The cliffs of the Santa Lucia Range
in years, a mere 5 million old,
made up of parts 100 million
more –beyond all thought;
carried, cooked, cooled and coated
in the incredible oven
that gave us life and breath
and keeps us forever warm.
And this is just the latest serving
at a table set
four thousand million beyond the beyond.

And I dare to stand on an edge
over the waters similarly old
reincarnated, rain-drop to ocean,
more times than Buddha even knows

And think about my years.

The ice plant of summer, green,
each leaf as thick as fingers
reaching for the sun
in autumn turning red
and yellow, translucent
in the angling light.

The stones below
in granite white, and hard,
green serpentine and slippery soft
let sea-waves scrub them
over centuries of centuries
until we can pocket pebbles
and carry home,
mementos of our times
when we ran free

before the wonders
in the days to come
of contemplation, time
and universe.

These cliffs which we can warm
our backs against as sun set
measures other hours gone
have grown and stood their ground
five million years and only lately
have they begun to bow in their old age
as we all do, eroded by
the wind and rain, the softer stuff
that takes us all
in our good end.

So life, our spark in time,
gives eternities
to each of us
then passes on
and we wing with it
ash and flower
in the wind.

Will Kirkland, Oct, 2009