will these surf-scoured stones
on my window sill glow
green and pink like tourmaline
the way they were animated
by sound and rain when
I bent and picked them up?
Will they glow like embers
seething in a draft from the dark
outside? Do the stones remember
the difference between sound
and bay? Do they remember
when the glacier dragged its feet?
I will come upon more rocks
where sand blunts the ocean's edge
and I will place them on the sill
by the others wet with memory.
 |
| From Passaic Headwaters, Truman Beach near Orient, NY, Buffalo Mountain, and the ones in this poem, from Ft. Worden. |
"Sitting Waiting Wishing" by Jack Jackson makes me feel much more sad than this poem; hence the title.
Other notes: In Praise of Shadows by Tanizaki Jun'ichirÅ (as the revisions progressed, has become less relevant for this poem). Keats on negative capability. I'm also slowly reading Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.
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