I shift my stones around. Sometimes I carry them
back home and then forget to empty out my pockets.
Never throw a stone away: you can’t rely on finding
something else that fits. So many people pick up stones
they think resemble hearts. Lopsided things, like Siamese
chins: one round and clefted Chevy Chase, one pointy goat.
I’m sorry that they do this: gives a poor impression of
what they think the heart is. Shows they’re lonely.
I suppose I’m not much different. Can’t decide if stones
would rather be down on the beach than in my garden,
try to make a note of every one at least, give it a story:
either what was going through my mind, or what I think
might be its disposition. Splashing water on them is a treat.
It’s easy to forget what drew you to them in the first place.
Like a human face, each one has something hidden.

Seeding the Snow