Rift

Moss bonnets rested on rocks
along the rift, helmets fastened
to skulls atop a lava plume.
No one wanted a king. Did you?
When I fell into a rift, where stone
separated into two sides, magma
filled its hole. Heat covered me
as steam washed over volcanic rock,
the bath stinking of sulphur. I sought
a boundary wall, stone that sheltered
my skin from wind, and so stood
at the ragged edge of the plate.
Earth moved like lily pads skimming
on a pond of water that whirled.
Motion made me this way, cut me
to my surfaces the way earth cut
its teeth on stone, pushing flatness
into mountains. Were humans even
capable of change? The moss clung
to its surfaces, lichen teeming on ridges.
My body wedged in place as moss
bridged gaping canyon to new valley.