Bolts of granite spring from this land,
blunt thumbs, chewed by weather, each one
a hard faced claim of solid solitude.

Swaddled in myth to match their moss socked shapes: Witch frozen
farmers, their hounds solidified to their heel for all eternity.


Look deeper.

Another tales lies beneath peat and clitter:

All these thumbs rise from one heart.

A one-time outpouring beneath a subsoil shell:

Cooled, weathered, cracked to become this land.


And we, standing here, similarly named with labels of
convenience, myth wrapped.

Standing like lonesome hilltops apart.

We forget that we too are outcrops of
a molten story.  A kinship bound up in a shared
journey from spun from space.


Our soft bodied, pink lunged
fragility, rests on the breath of a common air

We spring like puffballs

From one fungal web that spans the forest
in which we stand.