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
Comments
Post a Comment