Stones in shoes, in spite made of brittle
sticks that form words that actually can hurt you,
Stones on spindly paths made by spindly liars
with fat pockets walked upon by bare footed travellers or rolled over by tyres
in for a puncture and headed for nowhere in particular that means real clover.
Stones in the slingshots of sorrow and in the
eyes of ignoramus and jutting out from a place made of ego, ready, sharp to
blunt the gentle spinning of real love stories made deep by invisible gardeners
on the inside of hopeful bodies.
Stones on the shoreline where the rolling dance
is balm to the pronged knife edge
Stones skip, skipping on silken rivers or
lover's lakes or the bounding main, main where all of us might belong.
Stones collected and collated and grouped in a
huddle past the muddle of too many pains
In the colors of every gem to catch aglow as
the sun rolls in.
Stones rolling, rolling stones
Stones rolling, where we roam
.....Is ocean bound.
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