In the Mátra
(for Norbert)
by Theodora Goss

The rock ladies
thought it was rude
when I asked about their age.
“How old are these rocks?” I asked.
And of course they heard me,
the craggy, lichen-covered rock ladies
with moss growing over their bodies,
lying among the grasses where butterflies
were fluttering their evanescent way,
sipping from purple and yellow flowers,
gone in a season. But the rock ladies
sleep long and deep, remember glaciers.
Their faces are pitted and pock-marked.
They know ancient stories
from when these mountains reached
to the sky and they could drink
directly from the clouds.
“Who does she think she is?” they said
to each other. “Landing here on us
like one of those butterflies,
and just as obnoxious.
Never mind. She’ll be gone soon.”

(The image is The Rocks by Vincent Van Gogh.)