Picked up from the sand

A slick storm-cloud gray rock.

Turned it over in my too-soft-to-be-a-real-man hands

And slid my fingers against the cool smoothness of it.

Strained to hear the years that had slid off –

Water grinding and shaping and sloughing each layer

Like a flood of confessions shared by an old man.

My crooked, stained teeth appeared in a quiet smile at the thought

Of skipping a rock across the water

Sending it on a detour from history.

This entry was posted in Poetry by bgm1969. Bookmark the permalink.

About bgm1969

This blog is updated by a guy who’s overweight, silly, Liberal, spiritual rather than religious, infatuated with beauty and grace, musically blessed, and always changing.

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