Our forms displace a precise amount of air.
We have volume.
Your thoughts do not.
We remember all that made us.
You do not.
The air and the fire, the currents of water,
grains of sand, and eons of pressure.
Our value is not relational.
Yours, sadly, is.
Gutter, rooftop, buried, shattered, exalted, exposed,
it is all the same to us.
You collect us as trinkets.
That does not make us trinkets.
We adore gravity.
You do not.
It’s no accident
the only time you felt real today
was when you walked in the rain
and through water-speckled glasses
looked at your dog
looking at you.
[After losing several posts connected to these pictures, I submitted myself to them. The story of conspiracy and monopoly (think: Comcast) and co-dependence and Murphy’s law (mine, the Universe’s) will have to wait].
Wow, especially the lines “We adore gravity. You do not.” I love this!
It will sound silly (so?) but I have a bowl of rocks from all over the world. I am going to read this to them. Thank you, Dee.
Better yet. Ask them to speak to you!
such a beaUtiful listening and poetic response to your stones
and all the more so by contrast to the vanished tales of personal incompetence and corporate fuckery
i Love this. I love this very much. Thank you and Thank Them
thanks, Grace…
So, this beauty of piece is only the intro? Beautiful, beautiful. Can’t wait for more!
it’s not the intro to anything… it’s what came when, after two vanished, long-worked on posts with lots of narrative, just vanished. kaput! gone! perhaps best left in the realm of the unrecorded.
oh! So sorry! I was hoping you hadn’t permeantly lost all that work. That is the most frustrating thing!! Well god knows there’s a lot out great stuff there in the ether from all of us. As Mo said so we’ll, the underlying message is there if one listens. I’m not good at being a rock… talking with them is something I think I’ve done but didn’t realize it til reading your words
An artful pile of stones surrounds the turn off valve at the base of my old radiator which sits at the entrance to the kitchen (hub of any home). They anchor history in that place and I see them each time I cross the threshold. There’s a bowl of stones from locations that have meant something to me nearby on the top of a short bookshelf full of poetry, and each of them a poem without words. This is a beautiful post.
Rocks as “poems without words”. Perfect. Only a poet could come up with that!
Living in many places over the past 15 years, the land is my introduction to place. Rocks become cairns by the front door of every rental home that we have lived in. I don’t idly pick up rocks but I wait until I hear a whisper of place, of story and then asking permission to move them, I stack rocks.. I’ve done this in Maui, Washington, Texas, Tennessee and now in New Mexico. ..this all happens within the first month of moving into a new home because I don’t feel settled until I feel the welcome from these sentinels of the land….
The inclination to collect pieces of nature seems pretty universal. I love that you ask permission. I need to remember that.
Oh this feels like soul balm
Thanks Saskia. I have something to send you. Can you email me your address (I know I should have it, but…. )