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.
welcome the skunks, raccoons,
occasional fox or fisher.
Part of me wants to see
what is coming;
part of me is glad
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.
