Small Stones, Day 31

I relax into the arms
of Friday night.

You know you are tired when you stand
at your front door
thumb on the button of your car lock remote
wondering why the house door

won’t open.


That’s the end of the month of Small Stones.  Do we have a new challenge?


Small Stones, Day 30

I walk away from the news —

California drought the worst in 500 years,
ice in Atlanta —

to take out the trash,
then the recycling.

I enjoy the small blessing

of each

chilly raindrop.

My glass bottles go thunk,
hitting the bottom of the bin.

Small Stones, Day 28


I hold up the Jan Brett book, where
at the edge of the woods,

little Annie meets a moose.

“How many of you have ever seen an elk?” I ask,
because this is the school where a herd crossed my road

just a hundred yards downhill
at 7:55 a.m.
just last week.

Every hand went up.


“Well,” I said,

“a moose…

a moose is even bigger!”

Small Stones, Day 27

The children have scattered.

Cast like a flock of bright birds
from the school doors
onto the neighborhood streets

or shepherded onto buses

or in-gathered to cars by parents

they are gone
and they will not be seen again until morning

they are tucked away safely
with their Xboxes and Playstations and iPads and Nickelodeon

no flocks of bicycles
no swooshing skateboards

There is just this one last girl
shuffling round-shouldered down the street
in her puffy black and white jacket

walking slowly

over her cell phone
thumbs flickering

Small Stones, Day 25 (a memory)

Theresa led me by flashlight from her old house
up to their new house,

where the walls were framed
and the floor nailed down.

She set up a brilliant electric work-light
–the wood stove will go in this corner, she said —
and a CD player with praise songs.

We danced,

in a circle of light,

in the scent of sawdust

in celebration.