Stones

A pebble the shore yielded, I put in my pocket.

A rock the mountain gave, I stored in my satchel.

A stone my hand let go, I picked up again.

When I bent down its weight was that of a mountain.

Some stones I discarded. Some I threw as far as I could.

Some I skimmed across the ponds and lakes

During my peregrinations.

Some pebbles I assembled in towers for the dead.

Some rocks I quarried with my bare hands.

Some I polished on my skin.

There are stones which need not be hewn to build a house –

They lie on the tussocky plains, waiting to be pieced together.

Gemstones indeed are uncovered. No stone is heavier than them.

None more coveted. None more trenchant.

There were stone beads arranged in a pendant

Which lasted millennia. Mine were attached to a weak string:

They fell back into a river.

There are rocks which we use as pedestals, stairs, gallows.

There are rocks which shimmer at night.

Others are darker, and cover us in cold slabs.

Each older than all our ages added up.

Meandering near the Mouth of the Cow

Or down Khutumsang's ravine,

I have carried two obsidian pebbles,

A chunk of flint and one of fool's gold.

Stones always bear marks of a kind.

Pebbles always wash up for a reason.

Rocks always shape a path.