The skin
remembers
long after the mind
forgets.
My childhood
was carefully
bordered in
yellow angles
with a
high gloss
shine.
Lake ice,
window of the
water house below.
Hold a piece up
in front of the sun
it becomes my window too.
Small Stone #17
Small sliding steps
tentative
listening for any
groan or creak
that means
breaking through.
Small Stone #18
Like the ivory
white dominoes
of my childhood
they fall
singly
or
in
groups
And I wonder when all
my fears are toppled,
what will remain?
Small Stone #28
The dove startled
from its slumber
in the pine tree
by the light
flies blindly
into the window
again and again.
There is an art
to true listening
that makes me
feel lovingly held.
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