Poem

Stone

I have one mala bead.
It is, depending on the season,
cold or warm in my palm, but
always the perfect shape and weight.

Tooled by the lakeshore's mantra
it ceded all its misdirection
and drew into this
baby-smooth, old and new,

wise, silent, comforting stone.
I keep it on the grey worn arm
of my porch chair
and when I pick it up

it pauses me,
allows me passage from the moment,
permission almost,
to gather my awareness around me

so that I notice
some remarkable common thing
that has been here all along
waiting for me, as patient as a stone.

April 14, 2020