Something Ancient

Deep on the blue side of an ancient valley, between the beginning and whatever comes after,
a face older than clocks and light, persists against the raging brine of time and weather.
The foundation of Its structure rorschachs, but imperfectly,
and Its horns…
they scratch the sky like diamond daggers dirtied with miscare and ambivalence leaving lines for eternity to clean.
Its eyes blink with a crusty resistance that only a lonely millennium could lacquer.
Its first breath was the first of its kind and it was the thing that spun the world.
On an inhale–
the torso; mossed, shagged and wickered, expands against its practice and cracks like impatient fingers.
The seeds are planted.
On an exhale–
a vibration of glittering epidermis explodes and extends the bones of lesser giants with a natural pace and promise.
The seeds now loom with permanence.

Their roots melt into earth with lightning like designs and a feverish hunger,
searching for satiation that would not come from the hand that made them.
So a raging tempest answers their call, stampeding through space and valley with focused destruction,
but stops at the foot of Its cobbled throne, too scared to impede Its process of greeting the morning.

An unsound hand reaches from the shadows, exploring grips to brace the weight of what was only at rest.
Its fingers, spindly, gnarled and knotted, pop at each joint as it settles on a newborn ancient pine,
sending dust into the air that mixes with the pollen from above; something for Its breath to carry.
The curious machinations of Its legs roar to life and suspend Its ancient weight with sturdy tension.

The pollen settles, dusting around Its shipwrecked ankles,
as Its hips extend, the shoulders pull taught across Its back where fosforescent flora make promises.
Deep under Its driftwood chest, the first thump that would feed the world echos as Its crown crests the canopies.
The lightless dynamo of Its eyes catches a warm ray of golden life, and for the first time, the world is seen.