perhaps one wouldn’t
call it metamorphosis
the shift of sandstone
back into sand
prized free by frost
or fungal enzymes
grain by grain more gradual
than an hourglass
though so much
less reversible
but why only prize changes
made under pressure
it’s years of weather
that unfather us
daily hammer blows
that shape our addictions
and i have been baptised
in a saline solution
to every ambiguity
a labyrinthine root
