Dusted.

SPRINGTIME in THE ROCKIES, LICHEN

All these years I overlooked them in the

racket of the rest, this

symbiotic splash of plant and fungus feeding

on rock, on sun, a little moisture, air —

tiny acid-factories dissolving

salt from living rocks and

eating them.

 

Here they are, blooming!

Trail rock, talus and scree, all dusted with it:

rust, ivory, brilliant yellow-green, and

cliffs like murals!

Huge panels streaked and patched, quietly

with shooting-stars and lupine at the base.

 

Closer, with the glass, a city of cups!

Clumps of mushrooms and where do the

plants begin? Why are they doing this?

In this big sky and all around me peaks &

the melting glaciers, why am I made to

kneel and peer at Tiny?

 

These are the stamps of the final envelope.

 

How can the poisons reach them?

In such thin air, how can they care for the

loss of a million breaths?

What, possibly, could make their ground more bare?

 

Let it all die.

 

The hushed globe will wait and wait for

what is now so small and slow to

open it again.

 

As now, indeed, it opens it again, this

scentless velvet,

crumbler-of-the-rocks,

 

this Lichen!

Lew Welch