Consolation

On a loose stone atop the bluestone wall
by the gate, this lichen’s a rough oval
of concentric bands in sage- and olive-green.

I’ve seen this pattern in homey braided hearth rugs,
also the colors. But sometimes I unnerve myself,
imagining it glows after dark. Were it the size

of a welcome mat, its stiffness might tempt me
to wipe my feet—then to think twice, leery
of chemical burn. In fact, the lichen’s

acids are eating the rock—slowly, slowly—
producing a granulate my descendants could sift
with their toes. Which is consoling in its way.

I know an old Quaker cemetery tucked into woods
on a mountain-side: a few rude stones upright still,
others tipped against trees or hugging the earth.

All lichen-splotched, names ruinously weathered.
It’s steadying to stand in its dappled shade where
moldered flesh and dissolving stone converge:
the kinship of matter’s so evident there,

the intimacy of dust to dust.