That rock that we
have been pushing up
the hill—that one
that keeps rolling back down
and we keep pushing
back up—what if
we stopped? We are not
Sisyphus. This rock
is not a punishment.
It’s something we’ve chosen
to push. Who knows why.
I look at all the names
we once carved into
its sedimentary sides.
How important
I thought they were,
those names. How
I’ve clung to labels,
who’s right, who’s wrong,
how I’ve cared about
who’s pushed harder
and who’s been slack.
Now all I want
is to let the rock
roll back to where it belongs,
which is wherever it lands,
and you and I could,
imagine!, walk unencumbered,
all the way to the top and
walk and walk and never stop
except to discover what
our hands might do
if for once they were
receiving.