There’s only one stone
that matters. Cushioned in mud
and clay and seaweed,
it feeds on dreams.
In the sludge
of spring’s first run-off,
a hand might reach down,
lift the nearby weight of one,
skip it across water’s
irrepressible bone. Who
has picked such a stone
from amongst the many?
And why that one?
I was once touched
by such a stone and because
of that I turned human.
But first, I was stone.