Simple Pebbles

Home

is a place with strings.

Not the deadweight strings of the puppeteer,

not the lifeline tied around the waist.

They are living strings, wet with intent,

granted purpose on a Sunday evening

when a mother’s hands take time to bind them

in meticulous intervals around a tender pot roast.

Thyme and rosemary, memory and time:

a little white rope coiled around the mind

to squeeze out (with tenderness!) the sickly sweet juices

that give shape to my flesh and bone

gave shape to your eyes, lips, and nose

when the world pissed you off,

or better yet, elated you.

The Poet may claim that he cannot know

but I know the meaning of stones

the meaning of earth

in France, Italy, Scotland

when the good darkness settles around me

on a Sunday evening, when I am alone

and I suddenly taste rosemary and thyme

on the tip of my tongue.

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