Standing Stone

Sky shines overhead, a bluebird’s egg.

Starling flaunts its speckled iridescence,

yellow beak. The starved grass

begins to green.

I found this standing stone

in a West Virginia river,

brought it with me through three moves,

planted it in three different yards,

among mayapples

now spreading their wings.

I expect to stay.

I tend this little plot,
welcome the skunks, raccoons,
occasional fox or fisher.

Part of me wants to see

what is coming;
part of me is glad

I’ll be gone.

A friend who

“doesn’t believe in Darwin”

roots her sense of sacredness

in the body of an ancient Jew.

I do not think I will persist

after my body dies.

The stone, once mud

at the bottom of the ocean

pressed into rock by time,

will outlast me.

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