Hobbling down the mountain, with      each toe an eye auguring disaster.  I'd pressed my hands onto Old Stony Face, dreaming into her litho-mind; giving breath to Gaia's critical skin impelling me through the sinuous strain of her roots, to a radiant core; not Hell, but what's yet to be thought.      "Not allowing the point to be made,"       the mind returns to itself gathering       shards. Chipped, not broken. Two woman stride up the path listening to each other's stories: the strong force that binds together tumbling–mountain–stone.

 

 

     Not allowing: M. Blanchot, The Writing of the Disaster. Lincoln NB, 1986.