The stones that seem to move do
so whenever I don’t watch them;
when I don’t demand itineraries
of them; when I merely let them
enjoy what hands will move them,
regardless of whose hands they are.
They look like chert to me, what our
paleolithic forebears used to make
arrowheads, axes. These stones have
only moving from one useful space
to an other, more unobtrusive one.
Sometimes, I find them in a kind of
embrace—whatever kind of embrace
stones can experience. Other times,
they are distant, separated yet still
held by earth, asphalt. Once, I saw
them sitting close as if conversing.
I know—one morning—I will awake
to find they’ve vanished, and I will
have to seek out new stones. I do not
look forward to that day, as no other
stone—olivine, granite, rose quartz—
will speak these two stones’ language.