Here is my poem inspired by your picture of rocks.
Stone Woman/Rock House
Each day on her morning walks the woman would pick up rocks. Then she'd take them home, and caress each precious stone.
At first, she'd place them in bowls for friends to play when the bowls began to fill she moved to the window sill.
She'd place the stones in groups of two or four hoping they'd be comfortable until she could bring even more.
She'd hold them and turn them, she'd dust and water them. She placed the rocks in neat little rows or clustered like an English garden grows trying to coax them into bloom.
She'd sing to the rocks, she'd jabber and croon. She cracked one open and saw the moon, and light like stars sparkled inside. Each little stone was her special pride.
She worried the rocks until the day when one of the stones finally said, “Stop.”
He was a sage of a rock, who started this tale, “Never has there been a man, or animals, fish or bird insect or reptile—no one never-- that hasn't been touched by a rock.!”
So the woman stopped what she had to do and sat to listen to all the rock had to tell.
He told stories from the beginning of time when rocks came together to make the earth sublime.
Of fruit and flowers and whiling away hours from dinosaurs to Indians, and trains crossing plains, of farmers and wars and hurricanes.
The woman grew old listening to stones and when she died she wasn't alone.
The rocks all giggled feeling her mirth they rolled to cover the woman in earth.
Here is my poem inspired by your picture of rocks.
ReplyDeleteStone Woman/Rock House
Each day on her morning walks
the woman would pick up rocks.
Then she'd take them home,
and caress each precious stone.
At first, she'd place them
in bowls for friends to play
when the bowls began to fill
she moved to the window sill.
She'd place the stones
in groups of two or four
hoping they'd be comfortable
until she could bring even more.
She'd hold them and turn them,
she'd dust and water them.
She placed the rocks in neat little rows
or clustered like an English garden grows
trying to coax them into bloom.
She'd sing to the rocks,
she'd jabber and croon.
She cracked one open
and saw the moon,
and light like stars
sparkled inside.
Each little stone
was her special pride.
She worried the rocks
until the day
when one of the stones
finally said, “Stop.”
He was a sage of a rock,
who started this tale,
“Never has there been a man,
or animals, fish or bird
insect or reptile—no one never--
that hasn't been touched
by a rock.!”
So the woman stopped
what she had to do
and sat to listen to
all the rock had to tell.
He told stories from
the beginning of time
when rocks came together
to make the earth sublime.
Of fruit and flowers
and whiling away hours
from dinosaurs to Indians,
and trains crossing plains,
of farmers and wars
and hurricanes.
The woman grew old
listening to stones
and when she died
she wasn't alone.
The rocks all giggled
feeling her mirth
they rolled to cover
the woman in earth.