Andy Goldsworthy is a sculptor known for his site-specific installations involving natural
materials and the passage of time, documenting the changing landscape through photography.
all of texas was born an ocean.
shannon and i heard about fossils
in people’s backyards after the flood.
the day we had planned to get married, i watched shannon stack
rocks on their thin sides, leaning them against
the inside of her thumb, looking for the point that said fuck you
to gravity. only the two rocks holding each other know
where they find balance. do they last? i asked.
only a day, she said. it’s the wind.
when i learned about an evaporating
texas, i realized my mistake:
i was trying to make something that lasts.
every other element takes breaths. the river
just brackets itself around the rocks.
what was ocean hardened into texas, and still i swim
in the river that used to be the bed
of a deeper cavity, my hands in front of me.
when i came to the surface, i brought moss with me.
i took my ring off before you did. you called it
all day i wash in the river, clear breath
over my fingers. all day we search
for rocks that can stand still on another.
shannon tells me the only way to observe balance.
let go, she says.
i don’t know how to tell you:
my work has a shape because of you.