Gilgamesh, too, found rocks
in his path. They were like crumbs
for Hansel and Gretel, like
Ariadne’s red fleece thread.
It’s so hard, sometimes,
to see how we are being led.
We think we know the path.
We think we know something.
*
In a dream, I say,
It’s the rocks
that I just can’t let go of.
*
By the river, all the rocks
are softened, tumbled and smooth.
They are nearly impossible
to balance, to stack—
but possible it is.
*
So on the path
Gilgamesh, in his urgency,
smashed the rocks.
*
The ice
is thin.
The rocks,
flung underhand,
make such
satisfying holes.
Why is it satisfying?
The sound of shattering.
The sksksksksksk of pond ice resettling.
The hole.
*
Inside the stone,
it is dark.
Not like a shadow.
Like dark.
*
He broke everything
he needed
to find his way.
*
I do not know
why I break
what I need,
why I repel
what I love,
why I hold on
to rocks in a dream.
*
It’s not a path,
says my teacher,
it’s a beckoning.
*
By the continual
creeping of ants
a stone
will wear
away.
*
A stone
thrown into the pond
will not move
for many, many, many years.
A stone
thrown into the pond
is not lost.
*
There is no permanence.
*
My son says, Mom,
they’re all so beautiful,
every one of these rocks.
We toss them,
rock by rock,
into the river.
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