On picking up a stone


Circling you in my hand,
round the roundness,

my fingers content
at the cold smoothness

and the marbling,
and the heft.

I keep turning you,
round, a satisfactory weight,

and aeons in the making make me
feel connected for an eternal moment.

I see all existence in you,
inexplicable and right.

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8 thoughts on “On picking up a stone

  1. You captured so perfectly what I felt as a child collecting stones. I grew up in the desert and would go running off into the area behind our home, before the other homes came, collecting rocks that I was certain came from lifetimes ago. All that mystique and profundity in the tiniest thing.

  2. That’s a super poem. This is what poetry needs to achieve, an ability to be descriptive even of life’s mundanities, of everyday objects – like a stone – and give it something special, something magic.

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