Posts Tagged ‘stone’


After I’ve spent a whole day being stone,
my daughter plays our song on the stereo
and my body is whirlwind, a column of air
spinning round and round, gaining momentum,
and what once was sandstone in me is now dervish,
is dust devil, is momentary phenomenon,
and I barely recall what it’s like to be dense
as I sing and my arms rise and twirl
and I swirl through the room around my girl
thrilling in being this woman on this night,
this spinning delight, this whirling release,
short lived, perhaps, but oh for this twinkling,
I’m windborne, I’m dancing across the horizon
and the wind says, remember, remember this.

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how quickly
this basket of stones
a basket
of feathers

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Tempted by Comparison

Today I know the self
as a stone in the stream—
everything around me rushing and quickening,
and me, a way to mark all this moving.
Amidst all the bubble and rush,
a stone has its own very slow journey,
and yet, there is no doubt
the stone belongs, is doing
exactly what a stone should do—
which is to be true to its stone-ness,
to know itself as a traveler, yes,
but also as an integral part of the path,
a model of consistency, seldom
in a hurry, inclined to show up
exactly where it is.

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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,


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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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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