Stone poem

Round stone thrown—
how long will it fly
until it sinks to
the horizon and sits
like a bisque doll, won’t
move but it will watch,
gray on the asphalt.
Stares up at the sun-face,
a circle like stone’s own,
same speckles for eyes

only cleaner, less
homespun. Who’s
older, and bigger?
The sun always wins but
the stone’s not in stasis,
chucked by a man’s hand.
And back before that,
cragged ice rafting boulders.
They splinter, small saucers
of rock dot the rivers.

              I step to
the stone’s throw, my
trip marked in sand-smoke.
If I lived for years pressed
to make something solid,
I think that I too would
lose something in transit.
Shirked by the high things,
rolled down the mountains,
tossed like a steel shot,

unhurt by the wind-walls
that rise on the way down
like constant reminders
that some things move faster.
But pent up in stone is
mass held alive—
So now let the sun stop.
So now blow the light out.
What’s left is just stone-flight,
still moving, short-lasting.

Leave a Reply