The Figure on the Rock
by Jeff Barnett

She sits where the old stones
keep their
long, volcanic silence,

a quiet figure stitched
into the
weathered earth.

The wind
leans softly against her hat,
tests the
edges of her jacket,
threads
through the walking poles
resting like patient companions
between her hands.

Around her,
the hills breathe
in muted
greens and golds,
summer
grass drying to amber,
lichen
painting the rocks
with slow
centuries.

She is not
rushing anywhere.
That is the
grace of her.

She has
learned the language
of pauses–
how
strength can look like stillness,
how
solitude can bloom
without
loneliness.

The trail
behind her
is folded
into her boots,
into the
careful bend of her knees,
into the
calm gaze hidden
behind dark
glasses.

Perhaps she
is listening
to birds
beyond the trees,
or to
memories arriving
one by one
like
distant footsteps.

The land
recognizes her.
You can
tell by the way
the rugged
ground makes room,
the way the
open sky
keeps watch
above her
like an old friend



 

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