I knealt low.
Getting a better look.
Wanting to pick it up, yet
feeling unworthy.
The simple small stone,
so plain yet precious,
having been here for eons, and I
only for a mere passing spell.
A temporary stature
is my lot-
Forever grounded is
the little stone's-
A question beyond measure
arrises like a fog:
Which has more soul
the sacred stone or mere me?
Together the stone and I
await the answer-
The little stone of course
has much more time, than I-
Now I feel guilty. As a child and as a teen, I was fascinated by rocks and take samples from everywhere we visited in the U.S. I did wonder what events made them and what different minerals might compose it... Rocks are indeed a magnet for wonder. But I loaded my parent's car trunk with so many rocks that my Dad claimed they affected the gas mileage! ! ! So out they went. Far from their birthplace...
Hey, Smoky! Hope this finds you well in all ways. You hit on two themes in this I revisit again and again—our mortality and things too often overlooked and/or undervalued. Take care, brother. -Glen
Smoky, my friend, I am worried about you. It sounds as if you might be getting stoned!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Forgot! ! ! ! 10++++++++++++++++++++++ and onto my fav list