Story Stones

Saturday, January 14, 2012

December 29, 2010 -- small stone

In the poverty store, pennies bloomed among the weary map lines in an old woman's hand.

Posted by Granny Kate at 9:26 PM

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I've got this antique,
And I can’t say for certain,
But I think maybe Jesse James
Stepped across the south fork of the Cherry
On this very one,
It’s smaller now….
Rains have fallen
And mists have risen
From the plants,
From the plants and from the trees,
That heard the secrets,
Heard all the secrets of my Grandfolks,
And Great-Grands, Great Uncles and Great Aunts,
All manner of cousins, twice removed…
And of Jesse…
Heard my secrets, too.
Distilled each one into thoughts
Pelting down in a thousand rains,
And mixed with the fire of the sun,
To make magic,
Lifted them again to Father Sky…
Yeah, it’s much smaller now,
Got smaller every year,
Rolled that old river by,
It’s so small now,
This stepping stone,
That it’s smooth sides
Fit the palm of my hand ,
And on quiet nights,
If I listen,
I can hear the stories
Told by campfires, by hearth fires,
By hearty liars and pious pioneers,
I’ve got.. this…antique,
And no, it ain't for sale,
But get you one too,
Down by the river’s edge,
Don’t worry as I’ve done,
Does it miss the river sound,
No, it carries the river inside…
Spill a bit of water,
Now and then
To dissipate in the windowed sun,
And this stone,
This stone will spill its stories on you…

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