the wind blows
most days in
section 60
as children &
mothers &
fathers &
wives &
you
leave
small stones
on white marble
so others will know
between the silence
you rub the name
with blue crayola
for the fridge
at home
on the hour
the sobs muffled
by iron bells
you listen
like something will
change
like the wind will
blow it all away
like tears of angels
on white marble
might just
make a difference.
Stones
I spend my time
collecting stones
large ones for strong corners
flats for the cap
cobbles for plugging
the holes mixed
each day
to hold it strong
I spend my time
collecting stones
working in layers
laying each one to fit
like a puzzle
in this perfect wall
that protects the things
I own
and sometimes own me
I spend my time
collecting stones
set them around this
ancient oak
spreading arching
protects from sun
and storms
built high enough
to dream well under
a marauding moon
I spend my time
collecting stones
my father's trade
this art passed down
with bleeding hands
fit to chisels
chipping stones
making them fit
sealing it up
I spend my time
collecting stones
but sometimes I
leave one out
of the perfect wall
one rock removed just
long enough for you
to slip in
before new mortar
is mixed
I cannot tell you
where it is
run your hand slowly
over the surface
there
do you see it?
