I pick up a small round stone on the beach I hold it in my hand—it is still wet from the Waves that have washed over it or perhaps Washed it up just as I picked it up and I Wonder about it—where has it been all These years before it met me on this beach I think about its sister stones up in the desert Who haven’t seen an ocean in eons--just Soaking up sun without waves—this blessed Stone has both sun and waves—I raise my arm And toss it back into the waters—Perhaps we Will meet again