does not apologize
for being made of stone.
It rises dark and certain,
keeping the old language
of pressure and fire
beneath its skin.
Still, the columbines come.
Pale as moonlight,
tender as an open hand,
they gather at the edge
of everything unforgiving
and bloom.
Not because Earth
has been gentle.
Not because Wind
forgot how to wound.
They bloom where cracks
in the stone remind roots
what they came here to do.
Perhaps strength
was never meant
to look like a mountain.
Perhaps it is this:
a fragile thing
holding fast
to a narrow place,
turning its soft face
toward the sun.
August 23, 2026
Photo credit to unknown Instagram photographer with apologies for not catching their name.
