Stones Pebbles and Poems

Stone poems,
Lifted and gathered
Amongst the wild grasses
Of unkempt gardens,

Caked and swaddled
With dry earth
And the palette's paint
Of ancient soil,

Sun baked
With bark and leaf
And the mottled sheens
Of memory's motif,

From the far lands
Of other times and places
Of the heart,

Winds return the dust,
Covering crevices
And veins of iron rust,
Etched upon lodestones,

Poems for eternity
Held in trust.

Poems as stones,

Wash them up
Wash them down
Wash them off

Hold them under the gush
Of an ageless wellspring,

And polish and shine
The corners,
Then the rounds.

Flip them over
Scrub their belly,
Gather them up
In little mounds,

And place them
In a poet's bag,

Shake them together,
Rattle their sound,
Scatter them back,

And pour them
Into fountainheads
and the wild weeds
Of garden beds.

For the poet
Is but a moment,

His book hovers brief
Above the ground,

While the stone poems,
Will return again
For millions of years,

Beneath the sea,
Along the river's banks,
The forested floor
And sculpted canyon walls,
And sides of mountains,

Atop the ribbed crest
And ridge of infinity,
Forever and endless,

The stone poems
Will trace the paths
Of icing streams
And anchor out
The trench and pinions
Of lakes, artesian wells,
Gaps and gullies,

And the spine and ribs
That lift and pillar,
The beams and girth,
And bones of Earth
And brethren star,

Poems in the garden wall,

So close, were once
Comets and meteors

That tumble and fall

Warmth upon stones
Solstice day play
Led you off

To the far away.

And when missing,
Those who knew you
Will be wont to say:

"Gone. Gone to stay."

In a puzzled reflection
Both magical and sad

Words of bewilderment
They might add:

"She danced alone"

With only the garlands

Of Rosemary and Mint

Upon her moonlight skin
But seemed embraced,

Spin footed and enthralled,

As if listening to
The sonnets of lovers,
Though none could be seen -

Her garden was empty
Her garden was walled.

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