stone turning

Stone turning after a year

There is a theory in stone collecting.  Collect only the ones that tell their stories.  Press your ear close 
to their heartbeat, close to the bone made heavy by the weight of restraint and the years

spent waiting underneath, underwater.  Only the sun and rain know the way of their travel, 
labyrinthine to the surface.  Collect only the ones that sigh over their long lost limbs that remain alive,

fragmented somewhere else, continents away, to dream just the same.  The same dream of origins and 
sky.  Collect the ones that continue to remember, in a fitful wakefulness possibly as old 

as stars.  How they still carry all shades of light and dark, blooming a softness sharp on your palm

you can only mistake it as warmth or pain.  Collect only the ones that call out to you, as if waving

for rescue; you, a gunwale now, remains of the small boat that used to be your self in a dream in 
dreams many lifetimes ago.  Before you, too, were once that very same stone chipped from

the broken shoulder of a universe, awakened by a tree in a garden by a lake, turned over and made 
part of a fire place, a house, a mausoleum, a cathedral, before finally taken to the edge of land

where a child casted you to the waters, saw you glide and fly

shane