I woke flecked in white and mossy green. Nestled
Beneath the splaying smiles of clover. The light through
Frond Ferns dappled me starry and faint life pulsed
Within bulbous mushrooms, slumped in fairy crescents.
Warmth above, wheeling pale as a gull.
Warmth below, churning in the dark
Between them I bask, ponderous, tied by tanglevines
Shall I sprout limbs and trundle away, Snuffling
Blind through the twisting tunnels of the underbrush?
No, who in my stead would herd the pale seedlings,
And tell these late winter children of coming spring?
Where would the snake rest from his creeping, coiling cold
Scales in sinister affection? No . . .Better to stay
Heavy with warmth . . . .best to sleep. . .
I hurtle wild as storm, through the shrieking air
Am I woke to be bird-kind? Shall I dip and dive within
The vaulted sky? No, I have no wings nor plumage
I am bone heavy, my brief motion borrowed from
A child's slingshot. One small thing aimed at another.
I yell a warning to the hare, crouched in the thicket
But even her clever, quirked ears can't chase stone-shouts
I crash crimson and am still once more. I preferred my
Alarming motion to this ebbing warmth and fleeing life
I am weary . . .
I swim motionless through watery echoes, painted
Heron-blue and banded by strands of the light. Gifts
Of the sky lady as she spreads her smile across the pool
Silver fish dart and flash, spilling tumbling dreams into rising bubbles.
Tall strands of hyacinth and water lily, spread green underbellies
And beguile the currents, dancing lazy ripples. Water bugs
Skip and skirt, air-light and fleet as wind. My kind, grazes
Still and silent on the muddy bed of the river, heaped together
In Placid harmony. I call to them but receive no answer, still they sleep
And I shall join them . . .
The choking mud, slinks sluggish over my proud white speckles
This sort of waking is most akin to sleep which wraps me deaf and
Dumb within my earthen cradle-coffin. Is this all that remains?
To be buried so? This muddy embrace is a suffocating comfort.
The warmth above is remote, the memory of a stranger
The warmth below, surges vaguely, a call
I dream drowsy of crystal caverns and roiling heat.
I sink into dark embrace and wonder what I shall be
When next I wake.
. . . This is a poem I wrote from the view-point of a stone. It makes me happy!