I found this piece of an old root that had grown around a pebble in a riverbed at the back of farm. It seemed like a perfect image for this book of poems.
I brought back pebbles in a box.
For our brief span, their starlike endurance.
Wary of revolutions,
those old soul peddlers,
I kept them within lifeshot −
yet the pebbles speak only of water
flowing over them on the mountain,
and spell out in silence the word forever,
least human of words:
the cruellest, and the most foreign.
Small stones on the table:
I sensed there a refusal,
a stellar eternity
holding itself cold and dense.
I reached out my hand to take them.
They were warmer than my hand.