Laughing At Stones
It's easy when you meet the right ones,
like those who relunctantly double
as benches for weekend hikers,
the offa-my-lawn old men type
of rocks who fancy themselves gods
because no one's ever had to move them.
Or the ones in the middle of a wall
outside some neighbor's house
are a hoot. They feel the weight
above and below and still try to
roar their way up the ladder, on top of
the heirachy that's all but cemented
in place for all time (though this
can remind you of your job too much).
My favorites are the pebbles
who get all televangelical
when a child or love-struck teen
skips them, and these missles
proclaim "Look here! I'm The Messiah!"
for three to four skips,
but don't make across to proclaim
bragging rights on the shore.
Imagine each failed thrown pebble
settling at the bottom with similar
defrocked inmates, who watch the
fallings ones, jokingly declaring
"Behold the messiah!?"
for each one that plummets.
Does a collective bitter cry
at water's end, sounding off
underneath, cause some fish
seem to starve at the top
desperate to plunge onto a hook?
Or is collected arrogance
curtailed, smoothed out over time
into quiet wisdom, explaining
why children skim the edges
of a crashing wave's imprint,
gathering the smoothest stones
in their hands, origins unknown,
like treasure chest jewels.
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