Wedgwood Rock

Wedgwood Rock


A thousand faces of black and gray basalt coat the behemoth,

Whose peak looms high over loam-covered sands,

Halfway up the glacial ridge that holds this giant rock,

One such face viewing the Ravenna valley,

Another scans snow capped peaks of the Olympic Mountains,

And a third casts toward the Cascade Range but is screened by the ridge,

As those that once looked to Capitol Hill or regarded Mount Rainier,

Now are hampered by houses and trees inside the plat

Whose name reflects this room-sized lump of frozen lava,

That was pushed like a pebble by walls of ice a mile high,

To sit exposed aside the ridge and convince every thoughtful observer

That it is significant in ways that can be seen in its faces,

Like the one that bore witness to vows of peace

Among local Native American tribes,

While another observed a pact with Army envoys,

Like its low faces speak to children on bicycles,

Or to dogs that piddle and poop in Canid respect,

And although The City long ago declared climbing activity illegal,

Experienced technicians still finger interfacial ridges,

And novices grab the rope hanging from one of the six trees

That hide “Big Rock” from drivers of automobiles

Who speed past without the slightest thought upon its effects,

Such as I wonder if it were only chance

When first I beheld it,

That I could not help but reach out to touch a face,

My face,

And a few days later found our home and future,

Four houses south of Wedgwood Rock.



Ken Shiovitz

October, 2007