The Lake and the Lady

There is a stone, so old.  Before any history was ever told, it was swishing in the bottom of an algae rich ancient lake.

A stone, like million others, so old, so many. Suddenly, all gathered together, all covered with red hot lava, flowing, steaming, hissing, spitting out from the mouth of a hot red-hot mountain hole.

The millions of stones and life forms, rubbing together, rasping and grinding, became one gigantic chunk, one stone, so old, composing the entire world.

There is a stone, a slice of it, I touch.  A lady’s touch, a granite blade, so ancient.

I hold it, a lady gazing at an old photograph, nature’s own artwork.  A photo of an ancient place, under water, under algae, under time.

This stone, so old, talks to me.  It whispers stories of a lake, long gone, waves washing the shore, the rocky bottom, rolling around in immensity.  It tells me tales of ageless colors and ordinary compositions abounding everywhere. Riverbeds, wetlands, lake bottoms, overflowing with life, so ancient, long gone.

This stone asks me, the lady, to look at the lake, to feel it, to learn from it, to know its secrets.  It wants my eyes to gaze at it, longingly, to cover each millimeter of its mystery.  It shows me its life frozen in time, perfectly still, forever beheld in a frame of color and beauty.

A granite slice, perfectly polished, revealing the history of a lake’s secrets.  Just a slice of time, long, long ago, so vividly set in stone, the oldest photograph known.  Perfectly preserved, for the heart of a lady, nature’s art, one of God’s many tales.

Celina Cavalcanti

November 04, 2002