The Hill

What does it mean to keep going, when nothing gives way?

…

This day’s heat is in everything — the bare earth is thirsty but
The sky makes no promises—
the eye of god, unimpeded, stares, implacable.
I bend to my task. The great stone is massive and inert
But I am strong.
I push. The stone shifts. I push again.
There is a reason for everything, I suppose, even
Unreason.
I push. The stone shifts. I push again.
the day is hot —
sweat runs down my arms, and
the rock against my shoulder is slick now.
Suddenly it slips my grasp and tumbles down
The slope. I watch it go all
the way. I return.
The sun stares, it has not moved.
I bend to my task. The great stone is massive and inert
But I am strong.
I push. The stone shifts. I push again.
It is at times like this that I wonder why
I am here. The sun is not moved by such
Questions. Its hard gaze does not waver —
Drinks it all in, as waves of heat
Descend.
I push. The stone shifts. I push again.
Not the same way, though, never
Quite the same way.
Gravity only seems inevitable —
There is a path, if only it can be found,
Out of this place, where the sun is so
Direct and unyielding.
I push. The stone shifts. I push again.
The stone yields, it yields to gravity, but
I will not yield — it is an eye, slick with
Angry tears, but why? I have done nothing.
I push. The stone shifts. I push again.
And it is gone, its form recedes, down and
Away. I stare. What have I done? Nothing.
Dumb animal need animates my limbs,
I run. I fall. I run again.
I run. I fall. I run again.
I run.
    I fall.
        I run again.

The sun does nothing.
I am strong.

I push. The stone shifts. I push again.

---

…

This poem pairs with The Sun, another recursive piece, and is part of an ongoing field.