Friday, September 11, 2009



Small stones told their first stories
long ago, wore away each word.
Now they tell the story found
a hundred layers down
when a larger being burst,
gave birth.

Some stones emerge
like tears, spill smooth
and clean. Others chip
into testimonies, scarred
by the violent journey.

The most beautiful stone
lies buried for a thousand storms,
surfaces on the longest day
of the year, heats in the sun
like a speckled egg beneath
a mother hawk’s breast.
Tomorrow it will lie once more
beneath the multitudes.

Stones breathe slowly:
draw in air from one century,
let it out in the next.

Some stones bear white lines
crisscrossed maps left behind
by tiny voyagers, love poems
inscribed by creatures
from that molten dimension of desire,
or the work of unseen beings
whose sacred drawings hold
the world together.

Even when fanned out
on a sickle of gray beach
between summer rains,
stones think about becoming –
sand, soil, the grit and grind
of the world’s soul.

Stones take to the sky
as iridescent dust on wings;
particles shimmer down through the dusk,
bless our stubborn heads in the precise place
where the tender spirit enters,
and departs.

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