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Ballistic

 

Oh my dear Rosemerry, let’s remember how water is always moving & shining.

            —Sandra Dorr, private correspondence

 

 

And so though I am stone,

stuck and dull,

can’t move or shine,

I think of how a rock will skip

when it is round and flat,

how stone turns skiff

when thrown with spin

and speed and slant—

one flick of a wrist and I

can bounce, can hop,

can dap and for a brief time,

shine.

Oh life, pick me up,

give me a toss,

low and quick.

I’ll sink, but first

I’ll fly.

 

 

*readers–this poem has a little secret. can you tell what it is??

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Gift

 

 

When she lobbed a stone at me,

I’d long since taken down the walls

that might have offered protection.

 

Nothing to do then

but hitch a ride on the stone—

a direct trip to the core.

 

Had I known how quickly

it could carry me into self-inquiry,

I might have put the stone in her hand.

 

Nah. Still, I thank her.

Where the stone fell marks the spot

where I was. Already, the soft green moss.

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the rocks move

more than we think they do—

after the ice floes,

the mudslides, high water in spring

take note, you stone-like thoughts

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After begging the stone
after asking the stone
after wishing the stone
after entreating the stone
after bribing the stone
after wanting the stone
after beseeching the stone
to become a butterfly
I sit with the stone
and notice how quiet
it is in my head when
a stone is a stone.

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