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Poem: Teachers of Ice

Science in meter and verse

John Little


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Edited by Dava Sobel

I name them Upright, Lengthwise, Split
Down the Middle: these granites strewn
like milky stars. You could orient by them, find
your way through creek, meadow, and wood.
This one is here, and that one is there, its neighbor
next to both, old friends grinding down shards
of philosophy. It could take a million years
to see the argument to conclusion, points
split finer and finer, rubbed to a sheen,
into pebbles, then to sand in an hourglass.
They record the course of floods, huddle
together beneath parent slopes where they
were wrenched and scraped by glaciers, shaped
and molded by teachers of ice, which explains
their patience and hardness, having been milled
so interminably slowly to an exacting rule.
Now they languish, sun seeping into feldspars
and micas, into the quartzes until they quiver
with pure excitation—in heat and cold, wind
and stillness, through minutes and millennia—
and still radiate impassiveness.

Janet MacFadyen is author of five works of poetry, most recently Adrift in the House of Rocks, a collaboration with photographer Stephen Schmidt (New Feral Press, 2019), and Waiting to Be Born (Dos Madres Press, 2017). She holds a degree in geology and has written articles on natural history for Natural New England.

More by Janet MacFadyen
Scientific American Magazine Vol 322 Issue 5This article was published with the title “The Boulders of Lyell Canyon” in Scientific American Magazine Vol. 322 No. 5 (), p. 22
doi:10.1038/scientificamerican0520-22

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