Poem: Timpanogos Cave

Timpanogos Cave

My best-friend's mother once told me

how to remember which was which—

the icicles on the ceiling

and the wizard hats on the floor—

“Stalactites hold tight to the ceiling,” she said,

“stalagmites just sit below.”

—until they touch

and then they become

columns of water, or rather of stone

each drip traveling down,

simultaneously strengthening

the connection from up to down

and yet not even consciously

transporting bits of minerals,

just following, trickling down

The day was sunny,

the hike was hot,

until we got inside,

then it was cool,

damp and dark,

cold and even colder.

We shouldn't touch them,

except for one.

Touching it was allowed.

Many hands felt the point,

already worn and round.

It looked like something

gelatinous,

dropped and drooped

and plopped,

as though you'd see a print

from the soft press of your finger

—as on sugary cookie dough,

glossy from mixed-in butter

But then I didn't.

It was just smooth,

hard and cold,

that stalagmite on the floor.

-SFK

13.Apr.2015